.p.-n-n.  / 

REESE    LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNA. 
MAR  15  1893 


('cessions  Nn .  5  O  5" 5" 2^ ,      CL  w  Nn . 


MEMORIE  AND  RIME 


BY 


JOAQQTlsr  MILLER 

AUTHOR  OF  "80NG3  OF  THE  SIERRAS,"  "  THE  DANITES,"  EfO. 


NEW  YORK 

FUNK   &   WAGXALLS,    PUBLISHERS 
10  AND  12  DEY  STREET 

1884 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1884,  by 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  I).  C. 


CONTENTS. 

I.    NOTES  FROM  AN  OLD  JOURNAL. 

PAGE 

In  New  York, 9 

Going, 

In  Ayr,  Scotland 12 

In  the  Ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey, 14 

At  Lord  Byron's  Touib, 15 

In  a  Christian's  "War, 17 

In  London,             ..........  18 

Settled  Down  in  London,           .......  19 

Cowley  House,  Cowley  Street,  Westminster,       ....  23 

Hunting  for  a  Publisher,           .         . 23 

My  First  Book, 26 

The  End  of  the  Journal  in  London,           .  27 

Back  in  America, .28 

Recollections  of  the  Rossetti  Dinner,         .....  29 

What  is  Poetry  ? 38 

II.    IN  CALIFORNIA. 

I.  Old  California, 51 

II.  Damming  the  Sacramento,        ......  59 

III.  An  Elk  Hunt  in  the  Sierras, 72 

IV.  The  Pit  River  Massacre, 80 

V.  The  Girl  of  the  Long  Ago 88 

To  the  Girl  of  Long  Ago, 89 

What  is  Love? 89 

Who  is  Love? 91 

III.    IN  OREGON. 

I.  In  the  Land  of  Clouds, 93 

II.  An  Old  Oregonian  in  the  Snow,        .....  106 

III.  At  Home 115 

Farewell,     ....                  .  117 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 


IV.  The  New  and  the  Old, 
V.  Fishing  in  Oregon  Waters, 
VI.  The  North  Pacific  Ocean,     . 
VII.   "Idahao,"         .......        -       *        133 


IV.     IN  COLORADO. 

I.  The  Colonel  Bill  Williams  Mine,        .        .        •        •    -    •    ' 
II.  The  Cow  Widow  of  Colorado, 
III.  "  Colorado  Madge," 

V.     RHYMES  FOR  THE  RIGHT. 

1RQ 

To  Russia,    .         .        .        •        •        -.        £       •    -     • 

-ina 
Mother  Egypt,  .         ,        .         .        •        -        • 

Miriam,         .         .        .        .        •        •     —        ....     191 

192 
Jewess,      .         .         ...         •   .     •• 

.     193 
Illinois,         .         .         •         »         • 

104- 
Washee-Washee,       .         .         .   ,     .         .        ••     s    • 

195 
To  Rachel  in  Russia,    .        .... 

We  Scribes,      .    ^  ..        v       •        •        -        •        »     '   ' 
A  Flower  from  a  Bat  tie- Field  : 

Going  up  Head— An  Old  Soldier's  Story,      .         .        .        .197 


VI.     IN  MEMORIAM. 

I.  Joseph  Lane—  Senator,        ..... 
II.  Tom  Hood,        .         .  .  .-      "  ..... 

III. 
IV.  Hulings  Miller, 


Minnie  Myrtle,"        ...        •        •        • 


V.  Jonn  Brown—  Joseph  de  Bloney, 

A  California  John  Brown  in  a  Small  Way,         .         .        232 


I. 


NOTES  FROM  AN  OLD  JOURNAL. 


Tired  of  carting  around  the  world  a  mass  of  manuscript  once 
called  a  journal,  but  now  worn  almost  to  a  circle,  and  yet  not 
willing  to  leave  it  for  strangers  to  trouble  over,  I  have  copied 
out  these  extracts  and  burned  the  rest  of  it.  Whether  or  not  I 
should  have  cremated  the  whole  crude  heap  is  a  question  I  am 
quite  prepared  to  hear  decided  in  the  affirmative  by  the  reader. 
Yet  to  have  destroyed  it  entirely  would  have  been  like  forgetting 
one"* s  first  love.  Besides  that,  these  bits  of  the  journal,  you  see, 
pave  the  way  to  ivords  of  others  worth  hearing.  And  so  it  is  I 
have  kept  these  few  extracts,  taking  care,  as  you  must  credit  me, 
to  leave  out  all  names  or  allusions  that  might  cause  pain  or  dis 
pleasure  to  even  the  most  sensitive.  Yet  I  half  suspect  that  I 
have,  with  them,  left  out  much  of  the  heart  and  life  of  the 
thing. — J.  M. 


I  live  the  days  of  long  ago, 

Because  —because  I  loved  them  so ; 

And  loved  them  so  because  thai  she 
Was  of  them  so  entirely. 

I  lift  these  lines,  a  monument 

Above  those  dear,  dead  buried  days, 

When  love  led  on  which  way  we  went, 
When  flowers  bloomed  in  all  our  ways. 

Her  face,  her  earnest,  baby  face  ; 
Her  young  face,  so  uncommon  wise — 
The  tender  love-light  in  her  eyes — 

Two  stars  of  heaven  out  of  place. 

Two  stars  that  sang  as  stars  of  old 

Their  silent  eloquence  of  song, 
From  skies  of  glory  and  of  gold, 

Where  God  in  purple  passed  along. 

That  silent,  pleading  face  ;  among 
Ten  thousand  faces  just  the  one 
1  still  shall  love  when  all  is  done, 

And  life  lies  by,  a  harp  unstrung. 

That  face,  like  shining  sheaves  among ; 

That  face  half  hid,  'mid  sheaves  of  gold  ; 

Thai  face  that  never  can  grow  old  ; 
And  yet  has  never  been  quite  young. 


I. 

NOTES   FROM  AN   OLD   JOURNAL. 


IX    NEW    YORK. 


BEACHED  New  York  to-day,  August  17th,  1870,  after 
seven  days'  and  seven  nights'  incessant  ride  from  San 
Francisco,  and  fourteen  from  Eugene  City,  Oregon. 
Pandora's  box  !  New  York  at  last  !  Now  I  shall  write 
home  and  tell  them  I  am  on  this  side  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains.  At  Eugene  I  wrote  a  letter  and  left  it  behind 
me,  telling  my  parents  I  was  going  to  "  Frisco."  Once 
safely  there  1  wrote  them  I  was  going  East.  And  now 
I  shall  give  them  the  first  hint  of  going  to  Europe. 
Taken  in  pieces,  it  will  not  be  so  hard  for  them.  And 
oh  !  but  this  is  a  tough  town  !  And  the  time  I  had  in 
landing  on  this  island  !  I  have  fought  many  battles 
with  Indians,  I  have  seen  rough  men  in  the  mines,  but 
such  ruffians  as  assailed  me  on  landing  from  the  Jersey 
ferry  I  have  never  encountered  before.  Two  of  these 
literally  hauled  me  into  a  coach.  I  cried  out  :  they 
shouted  to  the  crowd  and  police  that  I  was  drunk  ;  and 
another  "  tough,"  who  said  he  was  my  friend,  helped 
them  hustle  me  in,  and  held  the  door  till  they  dashed 
away.  By  and  by  they  stopped,  and  one  got  down,  and 
holding  the  door  meekly  asked  me  to  tell  him  again 
what  hotel  I  said  1  wanted  to  go  to  !  At  the  door  of  the 


10  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

hotel — the  Astor  House — the  only  name  I  could  think 
of  or  was  familiar  with,  they  demanded  five  dollars.  I 
paid  it.  But  what  makes  me  mad — mad  at  myself  as 
well  as  them — they  gave  me  a  Confederate  five-dollar  bill 
in  change  !  How  could  they  know  I  came  from  a  land 
where  they  use  only  gold,  and  we  can't  tell  one  kind  of 
green,  greasy  paper  from  another  ?  Ah,  I  see  :  this  Con 
federate  is  white— or  was  white.  Well,  I  am  going  to 
cut  off  my  hair  the  first  thing,  and  get  me  a  new  hat. 

Augustus.  Shaved  and  shorn  !  Now,  let  them  come 
after  me  !  .  .  .  Great  event  to-day.  My  brave,  good 
brother,  who  heard  the  roar  of  war  away  out  yonder  by 
the  sounding  Oregon,  and  came  on  here  to  see  it 
through,  is  with  me.  He  is  dark-haired  and  very  hand 
some.  He  dresses  and  looks  just  like  these  other  fellows, 
though,  and,  like  Chinamen,  one  can  hardly  tell  them 
apart.  But,  dear,  brave  boy,  he  is  not  like  these  other 
fellows  a  bit.  And  how  he  and  I  once  quarrelled  over 
this  war  business  !  True,  I  can  remember,  when  we 
were  both  little  lads  and  father  talked  to  us  about  the 
slaves,  how  we  planned  together  to  steal  the  poor 
negroes  and  help  them  away  to  the  North.  But  when 
the  war  came,  and  the  armies  went  down  desolating  the 
South,  then,  with  that  fatality  that  has  always  followed 
me  for  getting  on  the  wrong  side,  siding  with  the  weak, 
I  forgot  my  pity  for  the  one  in  my  larger  pity  for  the 
other.  And  so  my  brother  John  shouldered  his  gun, 
we  shook  hands,  and  I  never  saw  him  any  more  till  to 
day.  His  name  is  on  the  rolls  of  New  Jersey,  a  lieuten 
ant  only.  We  do  not  mention  the  war.  His  side  won. 
But,  as  with  many  another  noble  fellow,  it  has  cost  him 
his  life  I  fear.  I  can  see  death  on  his  pale,  gentle  face. 
His  deep  blue  eyes  have  lost  their  glory.  What  will 
mother  say  ? 


GOING.  11 


GOING. 

August  19.  I  shall  get  out  of  this  town  at  once.  .  .  . 
At  Central  Park  to-day  I  wanted  to  rest  under  a  tree,  a 
cool,  clean  tree,  that  reached  its  eager  arms  up  to  God, 
asking,  praying  for  rain,  and  a  policeman,  club  in  hand, 
caught  hold  of  me  and  shook  me,  and  told  me  to  keep  off 
the  grass.  "  Keep  off  the  grass  !"  There  was  no  grass 
there.  Is  ew  York,  if  you  will  come  to  Oregon  you  may 
sit  untroubled  under  the  trees,  roll  in  grass  that  is  grass, 
and  rest  forever.  ...  I  must  put  my  pants  inside  my 
boots.  Then  I  am  sure  they  won't  know  me,  and  get 
after  me  everywhere  I  go.  ...  If  I  was  living  in  this 
town  I  would  make  those  policemen  give  up  their  clubs. 
Are  the  people  here  a  lot  of  dogs,  that  these  fellows  have 
to  use  clubs  ?  Take  away  their  clubs,  and  give  them 
pistols  and  swords.  If  a  man  must  be  killed,  let  him  be 
killed  like  a  gentleman,  not  like  a  dog.  •  I  am  going  to 
get  out  of  this  town  quick.  I  do  not  fit  in  here.  .  .  . 
Bought  my  ticket,  $65,  second  class,  ship  Europa, 
Anchor  Line,  to  land  at  Glasgow  ;  and  off  to-mor 
row.  .  .  .  Have  tried  so  hard  to  get  to  see  Horace 
Greeley.  But  he  woli't  see  me.  Maybe  he  is  not  here. 
But  I  think  he  is.  ...  Went  over  and  tried  to  see 
Beecher  ;  found  a  door  by  the  pulpit  open,  and  went  in. 
The  carpenters  were  fixing  up  the  church,  but  they 
looked  so  hard  at  me  that  I  did  not  ask  for  Mr.  Beecher. 
I  went  up  on  the  platform  and  sat  down  and  peeled  an 
apple,  and  put  the  peelings  on  the  little  stand.  Then  I 
heard  a  man  cough  away  back  in  the  dark,  and  he  came 
and  climbed  up  the  little  ladder,  and  took  those  peelings 
in  his  thumb  and  finger — long,  lean,  bony  fingers,  like 
tongs — and  backing  down  the  ladder  he  went  to  the  door 
and  threw  them  away  with  all  his  might.  Then  he 


12  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

coughed  again,  but  all  the  time  did  not  let  on  to  see  me. 
I  felt  awful,  and  got  down  and  left  soon.  However,  I 
got  some  leaves  from  a  tree  by  the  door  to  send  to 
mother.  .  .  .  Two  handsome,  well-dressed  gentlemen 
spoke  to  me  to-day,  the  only  people  who  have  spoken  to 
me  since  I  have  been  here — except  to  bully  me  ;  said 
they  knew  me  in  Texas,  but  could  not  recall  my  name. 


IN    AYK,   SCOTLAND. 


September  4,  1870.  What  a  voyage  !  Cold  ?  Cold 
seas  and  cold  seamen.  I  don't  think  I  spoke  a  dozen 
words  in  the  whole  desolate  fourteen  days.  A  lot  of 
Germans  going  home  to  fight  filled  the  ship  ;  a  hard, 
rough  lot,  and  they  ate  like  hogs.  .  .  .  Saw  an  iceberg 
as  big  as  Mount  Hood  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean.  .  .  . 
And  why  may  there  not  be  people  on  these  broken  bits 
of  the  great  sealed -up  North  ?  Fancy  Sir  John  Frank 
lin's  ship  frozen  fast  and  all  in  trim,  he  there  stiff  and 
silent,  glass  in  hand,  his  frozen  men  all  about  him  at 
their  posts — fancy  all  this  drifting  away  to  the  friendly 
warm  waves  of  the  South,  on  one  of  these  great  islands 
of  ice.  .  .  .  Saw  Ireland  on  the  north  ;  green  as  the 
green  sea  ;  dotted  with  cottages,  crossed  by  stone  fences 
like  a  checker-board.  It  is  a  checker-board  :  the  white 
cottages  are  the  chessmen.  What  games  shall  be 
played  ?  Who  play  them  ?  And  who  win  ?  .  .  . 

September  10.  God  bless  these  hale  and  honest  Scotch 
down  here  at  peaceful  Ayr  !  Did  not  stop  an  hour  in 
Glasgow.  It  looked  too  much  like  New  York.  But 
here  I  have  come  upon  the  edge  of  Godland  ;  mountains 
and  rivulets  and  cold,  clear  skies.  It  looks  like  Oregon. 
Only  I  miss  the  trees  so  much.  A  land  that  is  barren 
of  trees  is  old  and  ugly,  like  a  bald-headed  man,  and 


IX    AYR,    SCOTLAND.  13 

ought  to  get  ready  to  die.  ...  I  have  made  lots  of 
friends.  One  man  showed  me  more  than  one  hundred 
books,  all  by  Ayrshire  poets,  and  some  of  them  splen 
did  !  I  have  not  dared  tell  any  one  yet  that  I  too  hope 
to  publish  a  book  of  verse.  .  .  . 

I  go  every  day  from  here  to  the  "  Auld  Brig"  over 
the  Doon,  Highland  Mary's  grave,  and  "  Allo way's  auld 
haunted  kirk!"  .  .  .  Poetry  is  in  the  air  here.  I  am 
now  working  like  a  beaver,  and  shall  give  up  my  journal. 
If  my  mind  is  not  strong  enough  to  hold  what  I  see,  or 
if  my  thoughts  and  notions  are  not  big  and  solid  enough 
to  stick  together  and  stay  with  me,  let  them  go.  .  .  . 
Heigho  !  what  a  thing  is  the  mind  :  a  sieve,  that  catches 
all  the  ugly  things,  stray  and  wreck  and  castaway,  all 
that  is  hard  and  hideous.  But  lo  !  our  sieves  will  not 
hold  the  sweet  pure  water.  .  .  . 

September  12.  Am  going  from  here  to  Byron's  tomb 
in  Nottingham  very  soon  now.  I  have  a  wreath  of 
laurel,  sent  by  a  lady  from  San  Francisco,  for  the  great 
poet's  grave,  and  I  go  to  place  it  there.  Shall  take  in 
Scott's  home  and  tomb.  .  .  .  Good-by,  Burns,  brother. 
I  know  you,  love  you.  Our  souls  have  wandered 
together  many  a  night  this  sweet  autumn-time  by  the 
tranquil  banks  of  the  Doon.  .  .  . 

September  16.  They  say  Carlyle  lives  near  here,  on  a 
farm.  I  like  Carlyle — that  is,  the  parts  of  him  which  I 
don't  understand.  And  that  is  saying  that  I  like  nearly 
all  of  Carlyle,  I  reckon. 

September  18.  In  the  sunset  to-day,  as  I  walked  out 
for  the  last  time  toward  the  tomb  of  Highland  Mary,  I 
met  a  whole  line  of  splendid  Scotch  lassies  with  sheaves 
of  wheat  on  their  heads  and  sickles  on  their  arms. 
Their  feet  were  bare,  their  legs  were  bare  to  the  knees. 
Their  great  strong  arms  were  shapely  as  you  can  con- 


14  MEMORIE  AND  RIME. 

ceive  ;  they  were  tall,  and  their  lifted  faces  were  radiant 
with  health  and  happiness.  I  stepped  aside  in  the  nar 
row  road  to  enjoy  the  scene  and  let  them  pass.  They 
were  going  down  the  sloping  road  toward  some  thatched 
cottages  by  the  sea  ;  I  toward  the  mountains.  How 
beautiful  !  I  uncovered  my  head  as  I  stepped  respect 
fully  aside.  But  giving  the  road  to  women  here  seems 
unusual,  and  one  beautiful  girl,  with  hair  like  the  golden 
sheaves  she  carried,  came  up  to  me,  talked  and  laughed 
and  bantered  in  words  that  I  could  not  understand, 
much  as  I  wanted  to.  ...  And  then  the  beautiful  pict 
ure  moved  on.  O  Burns,  Burns,  come  back  to  the 
banks  of  bonny  Doon  !  It  is  worth  while. 

How  beautiful  she  was  !     Why,  she 
Was  inspiration.     She  was  born 
To  walk  God's  summer-hills  at  morn, 
Nor  waste  her  by  the  cold  North  Sea. 
What  wonder,  that  her  soul's  white  wings 
Beat  at  the  bars,  like  living  things  ? 

I  know  she  sighed,  and  wandered  through 
The  fields  alone,  and  ofttime  drew 
Her  hand  above  her  head,  and  swept 
The  lonesome  sea,  and  ever  kept 
Her  face  to  sea,  as  if  she  knew 
Some  day,  some  near  or  distant  day, 
Her  destiny  should  come  that  way. 

IN    THE    RUINS    OF    MELROSE    ABBEY. 

The  Royal  Inn,  September  20.  Waded  the  Tweed 
yesterday,  and  looked  over  Sir  "Walter  Scott's  "  poem  in 
stones,"  as  he  called  it.  So  beautiful,  and  so  sad. 
Empty  as  a  dead  man's  palm  is  this  place  now.  "Wet 
and  cold,  I  walked  on  to  Melrose  Abbey,  three  miles  dis 
tant.  "Was  let  in  through  a  great  gate  by  a  drunken  old 
woman.  The  sun  was  going  down  ;  the  place  of  buried 


AT  LORD  BYRON'S  TOMB.  15 

kings  seemed  holy — too  holy  at  least  to  have  a  drunken 
and  garrulous  and  very  ugly  woman  at  my  elbow.  I 
gave  the  old  creature  a  half-crown  and  told  her  to  leave 
me.  She  did  so,  and  I  rested  on  the  tombs  ;  still  warm 
they  were  with  sunshine  gone  away.  Then  a  sudden 
fog  drew  in  up  the  Tweed  past  Dryburg,  where  the 
great  wizard  is  buried,  and  I  began  to  grow  chill.  I  got 
up  and  groped  about  in  the  fog  among  the  tombstones 
and  fallen  arches.  But  in  a  very  little  time  I  found  the 
fof*  so  dense  that  together  with  the  night  it  made  total 
darkness.  I  hurried  to  the  great  gate.  It  was  closed. 
The  wretched  old  woman  had  got  still  more  drunk  on  my 
half-crown,  and  I  was  there  for  the  night.  And  what  a 
night  I  passed  !  It  would  have  killed  almost  any  other 
man.  As  it  is,  my  leg  is  so  stiff  I  can  hardly  hobble 
down-stairs. 


O  master,  here  I  bow  before  a  shrine  ; 

Before  the  lordliest  dust  that  ever  yet 
Moved  animate  in  human  form  divine. 

Lo  !  dust  indeed  to  dust.     The  mould  is  set 

Above  thee,  and  the  ancient  walls  are  wet, 
And  drip  all  day  in  dark  and  silent  gloom  ; 

As  if  the  cold  gray  stones  could  not  forget 
Thy  great  estate  shrunk  to  this  sombre  room, 
But  learn  to  weep  perpetual  tears  above  thy  tomb. 

September  25.  Something  glorious  !  The  old  man, 
John  Brown  by  name,  took  the  wreath  for  Byron's 
tomb — and  a  sovereign — and  hung  it  above  the  tablet, 
placed  on  the  damp  and  dingy  wall  by  his  sister. 
AVell  then,  the  little  old  people  who  preside  over  the 
little  old  church  did  not  like  it — you  see  my  bargain  with 
the  old  man  is  that  he  is  to  have  a  sovereign  a  year  to 
keep  the  wreath  there  as  long  as  he  lives  (or  I  have  sov- 


16  MEMORIK    AND    RIME. 

ereigns) — and  lie  faithfully  refused  to  take  down  the 
wreath,  but  nailed  it  to  the  wall.  Then  the  little-souled 
people  appealed  to  the  Bishop.  And  what  has  the 
Bishop  done  ?  What  has  the  Bishop  said  ?  Not  a 
word.  But  he  has  sent  another  wreath  to  be  nailed 
alongside  of  my  wreath  from  California  ! 

O  my  poet  !  Worshipped  where  the  world  is  glo 
rious  with  the  fire  and  the  blood  of  youth  !  Yet  here  in 
your  own  home — ah  well  !  The  old  eternal  truth  of 
Christ  .  .  .  but  why  say  the  truth  of  Christ  ?  Better 
say  the  words  of  Christ  ;  and  that  means  eternal 
truth.  ...  I  have  not  told  any  one  here  that  I  wrrite 
verses.  .  .  .  Byron  sang  in  the  voice  of  a  god  :  and 
see  what  they  say  of  him.  But  they  may  receive  me. 
"  No  prophet  is  without  honor,  save  in  his  own  land," 
is  the  language  of  the  text  I  believe. 

September  28.  Have  written  lots  of  stuff  here.  I  have 
been  happy  here.  I  have  worked,  and  not  thought  of 
the  past.  But  to-morrow  I  am  going  to  go  down  to 
Hull,  cross  the  Channel,  and  see  the  French  and  Ger 
mans  fight.  For  I  have  stopped  work  and  began  to  look 
back.  ...  I  see  the  snow-peaks  of  Oregon  all  the  time 
when  I  stop  work — the  great  white  clouds,  like  ham 
mocks  swinging  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  as  if  cradling  the 
gods  :  maybe  they  are  rocking  and  resting  the  souls  of 
great  men  bound  heavenward.  .  .  .  And  then  the  valley 
at  the  bottom  of  the  peaks  ;  the  people  there  ;  the  ashes 
on  the  hearth  ;  the  fire  gone  out.  .  .  there  is  no  one 
there  to  rekindle  it.  ...  Stop  looking  back,  I  say. 
Get  back  to  the  Bible  truths  :  the  story  of  Lot  and  his 
lost.  .  .  .  Never  look  back.  A  man,  if  he  be  a  real 
man,  has  his  future  before  him  and  not  behind  him. 
The  old  story  of  Orpheus  in  hell  has  its  awful  lesson.  I, 
then,  shall  go  forward  and  never  look  back  any  more. 


IN  A  CHRISTIAN'S  WAR.  17 

Hell,  I  know,  is  behind  me.  There  cannot  be  worse  than 
hell  before  me.  .  .  .  Yet  for  all  this  philosophy  and  this 
setting  the  face  forward,  the  heart  turns  back  : 

How  proud  she  was  !     How  purely  fair  ! 

How  full  of  faith,  of  love  and  strength  ! 

Her  vast,  deep  eyes  !     Her  great  hair's  length— 

Her  long,  strong,  tumbled,  careless  hair, 

Half  curled  and  knotted  anywhere, 

From  brow  to  breast,  from  cheek  to  chin, 

For  love  to  trip  and  tangle  in. 

This  woman  was  Madonna  to 
The  tawny,  brawny,  lonely  few 
"Who  touched  her  hand  and  knew  her  soul. 
She  drew  them — drew  them  as  the  pole 
Points  all  things  to  itself.     She  drew 
Men  upward  as  a  moon  of  spring, 
High  wheeling,  vast  and  bosomful, 
Half  clad  in  clouds  and  white  as  wool, 
Draws  all  the  full  seas  following. 


I  love  my  own  land,  where  the  rabbits  dance  measures 

At  night  by  the  moon  in  the  sharp  chaparral  ; 
Wliere  the  squirrels  build  homes  in  the  earth,  and  hoard  treasures  ; 

Where  the  wolves  fight  in  armies,  fight  faithful  and  well  ; 
Fight  almost  like  Christians  ;  fight  on  and  find  pleasures 

In  strife,  like  to  man,  turning  earth  into  hell. 

Calais,  France,  October  30,  1870.  Been  to  the  war  ! 
Brutes  !  Slmttlecocked  between  the  two  armies,  and  ar 
rested  every  time  I  turned  around.  I  am  sure  the 
Germans  would  have  shot  me  if  I  could  have  spoken  a 
word  of  French.  1  am  doubly  certain  the  French  would 
have  sabred  me  if  I  had  been  able  to  speak  one  word  of 
German.  As  I  knew  neither  tongue,  nothing  about  any 
language  except  Modoc — although  1  am  trying  to  pick  up 
the  English — they  contented  themselves  by  tumbling  all 


18  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

my  manuscript — winch,  they  could  not  read — and  send 
ing  me  out  of  the  country.  And  such  heartlessness  to 
each  other  !  By  the  road  one  day  I  found  a  wounded 
soldier.  He  had  got  out  into  the  hedge  :  hundreds 
passed — soldiers,  citizens,  all  sorts.  He  was  calling  to 
all,  any  one.  I  got  out  of  the  mass  of  fugitives  and  tried 
to  help  him.  Then,  when  it  was  seen  that  some  one  was 
at  his  side,  others  came  up,  and  he  was  cared  for,  I 
reckon.  .  .  .  Everybody  running  away  !  I  running 
faster  than  ever  cripple  ran  before.  This  would  not 
sound  well  in  Oregon.  I  must  put  it  in  better  form  :  I 
will  merely  say  I  came  on  in  haste.  ...  I  am  no  great 
talker,  but  do  like  to  be  in  a  land  where  1  can  talk  if  I 
want  to.  ...  I  found  a  wounded  horse  on  a  battlefield 
one  day  trying  to  get  on  his  feet.  I  helped  him.  He 
wras  bleeding  to  death,  and  soon  sank  down  again.  But  I 
tell  you  he  looked  at  me  like  a  human  being.  Poor 
horses  !  I  am  more  sorry  for  them  than  the  men. 


IX    LONDON. 

London,  November  2,  1870.  Am  at  last  in  the  central 
city  of  this  earth.  1  was  afraid  to  come  here,  and  so  it 
was  I  almost  went  quite  around  this  boundless  spread  of 
houses  before  I  entered  it  :  saw  all  these  islands  and 
nearly  all  the  continent  first.  But  I  feel  at  home  almost, 
even  now,  and  have  only  been  here  three  days.  Tired 
though,  so  tired  !  And  then  my  leg  bothers  me  badly. 
There  is  a  bit  of  lead  in  there  about  as  big  as  the  end  of 
my  thumb.  But  ever  since  that  night  in  Mel  rose  Abbey 
it  has  felt  as  big  as  a  cannon-ball.  And  then  I  have  been 
rather  active  of  late.  Active  !  The  Oregonians  ought 
to  have  seen  me  running  away  from  the  French,  the 
Germans— both  at  once.  But  you  see  they  took  my  pis- 


SETTLED    DOWN    IS"    LONDON.  10 

tols  away  from  me  before  I  had  a  chance  to  protest  or  even 
suspected  what  tl^ey  were"  going  to  do.  Ah  well  !  I  am 
safe  out  of  it  all  now,  and  shall,  since  I  am  too  crippled 
to  get  about,  sit  still  and  write  in  this  town.  When  1 
came  in  on  the  rail  from  Dover,  I  left  my  bag  at  the 
station  ;  paid  two  pence — great  big  coppers,  big  as  five  of 
America's — and  took  a  ticket  for  it,  and  so  set  out  to  walk 
about  the  city.  And  how  delightfully  different  from 
New  York  ! 

Now,  I  want  to  note  something  strange.  I  walked 
straight  to  Westminster  Abbey — straight  as  the  crooked 
streets  would  let  me  ;  and  I  did  not  ask  any  one  on  the 
way,  nor  did  I  have  the  remotest  idea  where  it  was.  As 
for  a  guide-book,  I  never  had  one  in  my  life.  But  my 
heart  was  in  that  Abbey,  going  out  to  the  great  spirits, 
the  immortal  dust  gathered  there,  and  I  walked  straight 
to  where  my  heart  was.  .  .  .  And  this  encourages  me 
very  much.  ...  As  if  by  some  possible  turn  of  fortune 
or  favor  of  the  gods  1 — I  may  really  get  there,  or  at  least 
set  out  upon  the  road  that  these  silent  giants  have  jour 
neyed  on.  .  .  . 

The  Abbey  broods  beside  the  turbid  Thames  ; 
Her  mother  heart  is  nll'd  with  memories  ; 

Her  every  niche  is  stored  with  storied  names  ; 
They  move  before  me  like  a  mist  of  seas. 

SETTLED    DOWN    IX    LONDON. 

After  keeping  on  my  feet  till  hardly  able  to  stand,  I 
left  the  Abbey  and  walked  up  Whitehall,  up  Regent 
Street,  down  Oxford  Street  toward  St.  Paul's.  Then  I 
broke  down,  and  wanted  to  find  a  place  to  stop.  But  I 
must  have  looked  too  tired  and  wretched  as  I  dragged 
myself  along.  I  told  a  woman  finally,  who  had  rooms 
to  let,  that  I  was  ill  and  must  stop.  She  shut  the  door 


20  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

in  my  face,  after  forcing  me  out  of  the  hall.  New 
cities,  cities  new  to  me,  of  course,  haye  new  ways.  If 
one  does  not  know  their  ways  one  frightens  the  honest 
folk,  and  can't  get  on  with  them  at  all. 

A  public-house  here  is  not  a  tavern  or  an  inn.  I  tried 
to  get  to  stop  at  two  or  three  of  these  reeking  gin-mills. 
They  stared  at  me,  but  went  on  jerking  beer  behind  the 
counter,  and  did  not  answer.  At  one  place  I  asked  for 
water.  All  stopped  and  looked  at  me — women  with 
great  mugs  of  beer  half  way  to  their  brutal  big  red 
mouths  ;  a  woman  with  a  baby  in  one  arm,  wrapped 
tightly  in  a  shawl  along  with  herself,  and  a  jng  of  beer  in 
the  other,  came  up  and  put  her  face  in  mine  curiously  ; 
then  the  men  all  roared.  And  then  one  good-natured 
Briton  paid  for  a  pewter  mug  full  of  beer  for  me.  But 
as  I  had  never  tasted  beer,  and  could  not  bear  the  smell 
of  it,  I  was  obliged  to  refuse  it.  I  was  too  tired  to  ex 
plain,  and  so  backed  out  into  the  street  again  and 
hobbled  on.  I  did  not  get  the  water.  I  now  learn  that 
one  must  not  ask  for  water  here.  No  one  drinks  water 
here.  No  public-house  keeps  it.  "Well,  to  one  from 
Oregon,  the  land  of  pure  water,  where  God  pours  it 
down  from  the  snowy  clouds 'out  of  the  hollow  of  His 
hand— the  high-born,  beautiful,  great  white  rain,  this 
seems  strange.  .  .  . 

All  drinking-shops  here — or  rather  "doggeries,"  as 
we  call  them  in  Oregon — are  called  "  publics."  And  a 
man  who  keeps  one  of  these  places  is  called  a  publican. 
Now  I  see  the  sense  and  meaning  of  the  Bible  phrase, 
"  publicans  and  sinners." 

When  I  reached  Aldersgate  Street  that  first  day,  I 
saw  the  name  "Little  Britain"  to  my  left,  and  know 
ing  that  Washington  Irving  had  dwelt  there,  I  turned 
aside  to  follow  where  he  had  been,  in  the  leaves  of  the 


SETTLED    DOWN    IN    LONDON.  21 

Sketch  Book.  But  I  could  go  but  a  little  way.  Seeing 
the  sign  of  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association  close 
at  hand,  I  climbed  up  the  long  crooked  stairs,  and  soon 
was  made  quite  at  home  and  well  refreshed  by  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  roll  at  three  half -pence  ;  also  a  great  deal  of 
civility  and  first-class  kindness  for  nothing  at  all.  I  had 
bed  and  breakfast  at  the  same  reasonable  rate  ;  and  the 
next  morning,  leaving  my  watch  and  money  here,  I 
went  to  Mile  End  by  '  bus,  to  see  where  Mr.  Bayard 
Taylor  had  lived  when  here. 

I  lost  my  way  in  one  of  the  by-streets,  and  asked  how 
to  get  out.  People  were  kind  and  good-natured,  but 
they  spoke  with  such  queer  accent  that  I  could  not  under 
stand.  At  last  a  little  girl  of  a  dozen  years,  very  bright 
and  very  beautiful,  proposed  to  show  me  the  way  to  the 
main  street.  She  was  a  ray  of  sunlight  after  a  whole 
month  of  storms.  .  .  .  She  was  making  neckties,  she 
said,  and  getting  a  sixpence  a  day  ;  five  pence  she  paid 
to  a  Mrs.  Brady,  who  lived  at  52  New  Street,  and  this 
left  her  a  penny  a  day  to  dress  and  enjoy  life  upon  ! 

"  And  can  I  live  with  Mrs.  Brady  for  five  pence  a 
day  ?" 

' '  Maybe  so.  Mrs.  Brady  has  a  room  ;  maybe  you 
can  get  it.  Let  us  go  and  see." 

We  came,  we  saw,  and  settled  !  I  give  Lizzie  a  shil 
ling  a  day  to  run  errands,  for  my  leg  is  awful.  She 
went  to  the  station  and  got  my  bag,  and  she  keeps  my 
few  things  in  perfect  shape.  I  think  she  has  some 
doubts  about  my  sanity.  She  watches  me  closely,  and  I 
have  seen  her  shake  her  head  at  this  constant  writing  of 
mine.  But  she  gets  her  shilling  regularly,  and  oh  !  she 
is  so  happy — and  so  rich  !  Mrs.  Brady  is  about  six  feet 
high,  and  very  slim  and  bony.  She  has  but  one  eye,  and 
she  hammers  her  husband,  who  drives  a  wagon  for  a 


22  MEMORIE    AND    KIME. 

brewery,  most  cruelly.  He  is  short  and  stout  as  one  of 
his  beer-barrels,  and  a  good-hearted  soul  he  is  too.  He 
loves  his  old  telegraph-pole  of  a  wife,  however,  and  re 
fuses  to  pound  her  back  when  she  pounds  him,  although 
he  assured  me  yesterday,  in  confidence,  that  he  was  cer 
tain  he  could  lick  her  if  he  tried. 

November  8.  Mrs.  Brady  must  be  very  old  or  a  very 
great  liar.  Last  night  she  assured  me  that  her  father 
used  to  shoe  Dick  Turpin's  horses.  She  went  into  de 
tail  to  show  how  he  would  set  the  shoes  on  hind  side 
before  to  look  as  if  he  was  going  away  from  London, 
when,  in  fact,  he  was  coming  this  way.  As  if  I  did  not 
know  anything  about  horses,  and  how  that  all  this  was 
impossible.  I  expect  she  will  next  develop  that  she  had 
some  intimate  relations  with  Jack  Sheppard,  or,  most 
likely,  some  of  his  descendants.  .  .  . 

November  20.  Lizzie  is  a  treasure,  but  she  will  lie  like 
sixty.  Yet  she  is  honest.  She  goes  out  and  brings  me 
my  coffee  every  morning.  Mrs.  Brady  acts  as  a  sort  of 
mother,  and  is  very  careful  of  her  in  her  coarse,  hard 
way.  I  must  find  out  who  she  is,  and  get  her  to  school 
if  I  get  on.  She  tells  me  her  people  live  over  on  the 
u  Surrey  side,"  wherever  that  is.  But  1  have  already 
found  that,  like  Mrs.  Brady,  she  does  not  like  to  tell  the 
truth  about  herself  if  she  can  get  around  it.  How  odd 
that  poor  people  will  lie  so  !  Truth,  the  best  and  chief- 
est  thing  on  this  earth,  is  about  the  only  luxury  that 
costs  nothing  ;  and  they  ought  to  be  persuaded  to  in 
dulge  in  it  oftener.  New  Street  !  It  is  the  oldest 
street,  I  should  say,  in  this  part  of  London.  This  house 
we  are  in  is  cracked,  and  has  been  condemned.  The  relia 
ble  Mrs.  Brady  says  it  has  only  a  few  months  more  to 
stand  ;  that  the  underground  railroad  or  something  runs 
under  it.  So  I  must  get  out,  I  guess. 


HUNTING   FOR   A    PUBLISHER.  23 


COWLEY    HOUSE,    COWLEY    STREET,  WESTMINSTER. 

February  Itt,  '71.  From  Mile  End  to  old  Westmin 
ster  !  I  am  right  back  of  the  Abbey.  From  my  garret 
window  I  can  see  the  Virginia  creepers,  which  they  say 
were  planted  by  Queen  Elizabeth.  The  walls  are  high  ; 
but  this  garret  of  mine  is  still  higher.  They  call  it  the 
poet  Cowley's  house.  As  if  any  poet  ever  had  money 
enough  to  build  so  big  a  house,  or  ever  had  such  bad 
taste  as  to  build  such  an  ugly  one. 

I  hear  all  the  bells  of  Westminster  here,  and  of  Par 
liament,  big  Ben,  and  all.  And  I  hear  perpetual  pound 
ing  and  hammering  about  the  Abbey — all  the  time 
building  or  repairing.  Not  a  good  place  to  sleep  or  to 
rest,  0  immortal  poets  !  Such  an  eternal  pounding  and 
pecking  of  stones  and  rasping  of  trowels  and  mortar  no 
one  ever  heard.  I  had  rather  rest  in  Oregon, 

Where  the  plants  are  as  trees  ;  where  the  trees  are  as  towers 
That  toy,  as  it  seems,  with  the  stars  at  night  ; 

Where  the  roses  are  forests  ;  where  the  wild-wood  flowers 
Are  dense  unto  darkness  ;  where,  reaching  for  light, 

They  spill  in  your  bosom  their  fragrance  in  showers 
Like  incense  spilled  down  in  some  sacrament  rite. 

HUNTING    FOR    A    PUBLISHER. 

February  27,  '71.  I  have  nearly  given  up  this  journal 
to  get  out  a  book.  I  wanted  to  publish  a  great  drama 
called  u  Oregonia,"  but  finally  wrote  an  easy-going 
little  thing  which  I  called  "Arizonian,"  and  put  the 
two  together,  and  called  tiie  little  book  "  Pacific 
Poems."  It  has  been  ready  for  the  printer  a  long  time. 
But  here  one  cannot  get  a  publisher  at  all  unless  one 
pays  for  it.  And  my  money  is  out,  my  watch  at  my 
Uncle  Rothschild's,  and  I  have  nothing  to  pay  with.  My 


24  MEMORIE    AND    ItlME. 

brother  is  slow  about  sending  me  money.  I  am  so 
afraid  he  is  seriously  ill.  But  the  book  must  come  out, 
if  I  even  have  to  publish  it  without  a  publisher  ! 

March  12.  What  a  time  I  have  had  tramping  about 
this  city  with  my  printed  "  Pacific  Poems"  under  my 
arm.  I  think  I  have  called  upon  or  tried  to  call  upon 
every  publisher  in  this  city.  I  had  kept  Murray,  son 
of  the  great  Murray,  Byron's  friend,  to  the  last.  I  had 
said  to  myself  :  "  This  man,  whatever  the  others  may  do, 
will  stand  up  for  the  bridge  that  brought  him  over.  If 
all  others  fail  I  will  go  to  the  great  Murray.  .  .  .  All 
others  failed,  and  I  went,  or  rather  I  tried  to  go,  but 
only  tried,  the  first  time  or  two.  I  at  first  marched  stiffly 
and  hastily  up  Albermarle  Street,  past  the  great  pub 
lishing  house.  I  then  went  home.  I  had  seen  the 
house,  however.  That  was  a  beginning,  at  least.  I  slept 
well  here  in  the  gloomy  old  Cowley  House  at  the  head 
of  Cowley  Street,  and  next  day  boldly  entered  the  great 
publishing  house,  and  called  for  Mr.  Murray.  The 
clerk  looked  hard  at  me.  Then,  mentally  settling  the 
fact  that  I  really  had  business  with  the  great  publisher, 
he  said  :  "  Mr.  Murray  is  in.  Will  you  send  up  your 
card  ?" 

My  heart  beat  like  a  pheasant  in  a  forest.  For  the 
first  time  I  was  to  meet  a  great  publisher  face  to  face. 
"  No,  no,  thank  you  ;  not  to-day.  I  will  come  to-mor 
row — to-morrow  at  precisely  this  time."  And  I  hur 
ried  out  of  the  house,  crossed  the  street,  took  a  long 
look  at  it,  and  went  home  the  happiest  man  in  Lon 
don. 

I  came  next  day  an  hour  before  my  time,  but  I  did 
not  enter.  I  watched  the  clock  at  the  Piccadilly  corner, 
and  came  in  just  as  1  had  agreed.  I  think  the  clerk  had 
forgotten  that  I  had  ever  been  there.  For  my  part,  I 


HUNTING    FOR   A    PUBLISHER.  25 

had  remembered  nothing  else.  The  great  Murray  came 
down — a  tall,  lean  man,  bald,  with  one  bad  eve,  and  a 
habit  of  taking  sight  at  you  behind  his  long,  thin  fore- 
linger,  which  he  holds  tip,  as  he  talks  excitedly,  and  shakes 
all  the  time,  either  in  his  face  or  your  own  ;  and  I  was 
afraid  of  him  from  the  first,  and  wanted  to  get  away. 

He  took  me  tip-stairs,  when  I  told  him  I  had  a  book 
all  about  the  great  West  of  America  ;  and  there  he 
showed  me  many  pictures  of  Byron — Byron's  mother, 
among  the  rest,  a  stout,  red- faced  woman,  with  awful 
fat  arms  and  low,  black  curls  about  a  low,  narrow 
brow. 

I  ventured  to  say  she  looked  good-natured. 

"  Aye,  now,  don't  you  know,  she  could  sine  a  poker  at 
your  head,  don't  you  know?"  And  the  great  Murray 
wagged  his  finger  in  her  face,  as  he  said  this,  quite  ig 
noring  me,  my  presence,  or  my  opinion.  Then  he  spun 
about  on  his  heel  to  where  I  stood  in  the  background, 
and  taking  sight  at  me  behind  his  long,  lean  finger,  jerked 
out  the  words  :  "  Xow,  young  man,  let  ns  see  what  you 
have  got. " 

I  drew  forth  my  first-born  and  laid  it  timidly  in  his 
hand.  He  held  his  head  to  one  side,  flipped  the  leaves, 
looked  in,  jerked  his  head  back,  looked  in  again,  twisted 
his  head  like  a  giraffe,  and  then  lifted  his  long  finger  : 

"Aye,  now,  don't  you  know  poetry  won't  do? 
Poetry  won't  do,  don't  you  know  ?" 

"  But  will  you  not  read  it,  please  ?" 

"  No,  no,  no.     Xo  tise,  no  nse,  don't  yon  know  ?" 

I  reached  my  hand,  took  the  despised  sheets,  and  in  a 
moment  was  in  the  street,  wild,  shaking  my  fist  at  that 
honse  now  and  then,  as  I  stopped  in  my  flight  and  turned 
to  look  back  with  a  sort  of  nervous  fear  that  he  had  fol 
lowed  me. 


20  MEM01UE    AND    RIME. 


MY    FIRST   BOOK. 

March  20,  '71.  Published  !  And  without  a  pub 
lisher  !  No  publisher's  imprint  is  on  my  little  book  ;  a 
sort  of  illegitimate  child,  I  have  sent  it  forth  to  the 
press  for  a  character.  The  type  still  stands,  and  if  this 
goes  well  I  can  get  a  hearing  and  shall  have  a  lot  more 
of  my  rhymes  set  up,  make  a  big  book,  and  fire  it  right 
at  the  head  of  these  stolid  Britons. 

March  26.  Eureka  !  The  St.  James  Gazette  says 
"  Arizonian"  is  by  Browning  ! 

Walter  Thurnbury,  Dickens's  dear  friend,  and  a  better 
poet  than  I  can  hope  to  be,  has  hunted  me  up,  and  says 
big  things  of  "  Pacific  Poems"  in  the  London  Graphic. 
Two  splendid  Irish  enthusiasts  from  the  Dublin  Univer 
sity  are  at  my  side,  stanch  and  earnest  in  their  love. 
Now,  the  new  book  must  come  out  !  Yesterday  I  sub 
mitted  a  list  of  names  for  it — nine  names — and  one  of  my 
Irish  friends  settled  on  "  Songs  of  the  Sierras."  And 
that  it  is  agreed,  shall  be  the  name  of  the  new  baby. 
Good  !  Good  !  I  see  a  vast  new  sun  shouldering  up  in 
the  east  over  the  dense  fog  of  this  mighty  town.  ...  I 

have  met ,  the  society  poet  of  this  city.      I  met  him 

through  Tom  Hood.  And  he  is  a  character— a  sweet, 
gentle  character,  but  so  funny.  Yet  here  I  am  on  for 
bidden  ground.  The  decent  custom  of  Europe,  which 
forbids  mention  of  men  in  channels  such  as  this,  cuts 
out  nearly  all  that  is  of  interest  in  journals.  Bat  this 
one  man  stands  out  like  a  star  in  his  quaint  and  kind 
originality.  He  gave  me  letters  to  almost  everybody, 
and  I  in  turn  gave  him  the  manuscript  of  "  Arizonian, " 
written  mostly  on  old  letters  and  bills,  for  it  was  writ 
ten  in  one  night  and  at  a  single  sitting— and  I  got  out  of 
paper.  But  I  think  this  generous-hearted  gentleman 


END   OF    THE   JOURNAL   IX    LONDON.  27 

half  regretted  giving  me  the  letters  ;  and  I  shall  not 
present  all  of  them.  He  has  already  taken  me  to  see 
Dean  Stanley,  and  it  is  more  than  hinted  that  if  I  get 
on  I  am  to  meet  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  at  the  Dean's 
in  the  Abbey  some  evening  at  tea.  .  .  . 

Dear,  dear  :  yon  should  have  seen  him  last  night  as 
he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  fluttering  his  long, 
black  coat-tail  with  one  hand,  while  his  other  hand 
swung  his  eyeglass  in  a  dizzy  circle  before  his  eyes. 
And  he  tiptoed  up  and  he  fluttered  and  swung  as  he  said, 
with  a  final  high  flourish  of  his  long  black  coat,  "  Yes, 
yes  ;  I — I — I  like  the  Americans.  I  must  say  that  I 
never  found  an  American  yet  that  was  really  vi-vi- 
vicious.  I  have  found  some  that  I  thought  were 
d-d-dreadful  fools.  But  I  never  found  one  that  I 
thought  was  really  vi-vi-vi- vicious  !" 

THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNAL  IN  LONDON. 

April  19.  The  book  came  out  ;  and  in  the  whirl  of 
events  that  followed,  the  "  notes''  were  neglected.  It 
was  a  great  day — a  great  year.  Such  a  lot  of  favors  and 
countless  courtesies  !  For  example,  I  had  three  letters 
in  succession  come  to  me  signed  "  Dublin."  I  could  not 
answer  or  even  read  all  my  letters,  and  so  was  not  par 
ticularly  disturbed  or  elated  to  find  these  letters  from 
"  Dublin,"  whoever  "  Dublin1'  might  be.  But  one  of 
my  young  Irish  friends  discovered  these  letters  one  day, 
and  fairly  caught  his  breath  !  "  His  Grace,  the  Arch 
bishop  of  Dublin  !  He  wants  you  to  breakfast  with 
him.  Why,  your  fortune  is  made  !"  The  doors  of  all 
social  London  are  wide  open.  But  somehow  I  am  too 
full  of  concern  about  home  to  be  very  happy. 

London,  May  3.  I  find  heie  among  Uie^Pre-Raphaelites 


28  MEM  OKIE    AND    HIME. 

one  prevailing  idea,  one  delight — the  love  of  the  beau 
tiful.  It  is  in  the  air.  At  least  1  find  it  wherever  the 
atmosphere  of  the  Rossettis  penetrates,  and  that  seems 
to  be  in  every  work  of  art — beautiful  art.  I  am  to  dine 
with  Dante  Rossetti  !  All  the  set  will  be  there.  I  shall 
hear  what  they  say.  1  shall  listen  well,  for  this  love  of 
the  beautiful  is  my  old  love — my  old  lesson.  I  have 
read  it  by  the  light  of  the  stars,  under  the  pines,  or 
away  down  by  the  strange  light  on  the  sea,  even  on  the 
peaks  of  the  Pacific — everywhere.  Strange  that  it 
should  be  so  in  the  air  here.  And  they  all  seem  intoxi 
cated  with  it,  as  with  something  new,  the  fragrance  of  a 
new  flower  that  has  only  now  blossomed  after  years  of 
waiting  :  a  sort  of  century  plant — a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury  plant,  maybe.  For,  nearly  twenty-five  years  ago,  I 
am  told,  these  Pre-Raphaelites  began  to  teach  this  love 
of  the  beautiful. 

BACK    IN    AMERICA. 

Easton,  Pa.,  August  3.  At  "Dublin's"  breakfast,  I 
met  Robert  Browning,  Dean  Stanley,  Lady  Augusta,  a 
lot  more  ladies,  and  a  duke  or  two,  and,  after  breakfast, 
"  Dublin"  read  to  me — with  his  five  beautiful  daughters 
grouped  about — from  Browning,  Arnold,  Rossetti,  and 
others,  till  the  day  was  far  spent.  When  I  went  away  he 
promised  to  send  me  his  books.  He  did  so.  I  put  them 
in  my  trunk,  and  did  not  open  them  till  I  got  to  America. 
Fancy  my  consternation  as  well  as  amazement  and  de 
light  to  find  that  this  "  Dublin"  was  Trench,  the  author 
of  u  Trench  on  Words."  Ah  !  why  didn't  he  sign  his 
name  Trench  ?  for  I  knew  that  book  almost  by  heart. 

Yes,  back  to  America  !  With  the  cup  raised  to  my 
lips  I  was  not  permitted  to  drink.  I  knew  bad  news 
would  come.  I  felt  a  foreshadowing  of  it  all  the 


THE    KOSSKTTI    WXXER.  29 

^.   .  .    My  brother  wrote  that  our  family  circle,  for 

the  first  time,  was  broken.  My  only  sister  was  dead. 
And  in  that  same  letter  my  brother  wrote  with  but  a 
feeble  hand.  He  asked  me  to  come  and  stand  by  his 
side,  for  the  sands  were  crumbling  under  his  feet.  And 
so  I  left  London,  went  down  to  the  sea,  and  took  the 
first  boat,  sailing  from  Southampton,  where  poor  Arte- 
mus  died,  and  so  stood  by  my  dying  soldier  brother,  who 
had  never  yet  grown  strong  again  after  the  war.  And 
here,  while  praise  and  abuse  of  my  new  book  went  on,  I 
saw  and  knew  nothing  of  it  all,  but  watched  by  my  best 
friend,  the  gentlest  man  I  ever  knew,  at  this  little  town 
in  Pennsylvania. 

O  boy  at  peace  npon  the  Delaware  ! 

0  brother  mine,  that  fell  in  battle  front 
Of  life,  so  braver,  nobler  far  than  I, 
The  wanderer  who  vexed  all  gentleness, 
Receive  this  song  :  I  have  but  this  to  give. 

1  may  not  rear  the  rich  man's  ghostly  stone  ; 
But  you,  through  all  my  follies  loving  still 
And  trusting  me  ...  nay,  I  shall  not  forget. 

A  failing  hand  in  mine,  and  fading  eyes 

That  look'd  in  mine  as  from  another  land, 

You  said  :  "  Some  gentler  things  ;  a  song'for  Peace. 

'Mid  all  your  songs  for  men,  one  song  for  God. " 

And  then  the  dark-brow' d  mother,  Death,  bent  down 

Her  face  to  yours,  and  you  were  borne  to  Him. 

RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    EOSSETTI    DINNER. 

There  is  no  ifang  that  hath  not  worth  ; 

There  is  no  evil  anywhere  ; 
There  is  no  ill  on  all  this  earth, 

If  man  seeks  not  to  see  it  there. 

September   28.      I    cannot    forget    that   dinner   with 
Dante    Gabriel    Eossetti,  just   before  leaving  London, 


30  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

nor  can  I  hope  to  recall  its  shining  and  enduring  glory. 
I  am  a  better,  larger  man,  because  of  it.  And  how 
nearly  our  feet  are  set  on  the  same  way.  It  was  as  if  wo 
were  all  crossing  the  plains,  and  I  for  a  day's  journey  and 
a  night's  encampment  fell  in  with  and  conversed  with 
the  captains  of  the  march. 

But  one  may  not  give  names  and  dates  and  details 
over  there  as  here.  The  home  is  entirely  a  castle.  The 
secrets  of  the  board  and  fireside  are  sacred.  And  then 
these  honest  toilers  and  worshippers  of  the  beautiful  are 
shy,  so  shy  and  modest.  But  I  like  this  decent  English 
way  of  keeping  your  name  down  and  out  of  sight  till  the 
coffin-lid  hides  your  blushes— so  modest  these  Pre-Eaph- 
aelites  are  that  I  should  be  in  disgrace  forever  if  I  dared 
set  down  any  living  man's  name. 

But  here  are  a  few  of  the  pearls  picked  up,  as  they 
were  tossed  about  the  table  at  intervals  and  sandwiched 
in  between  tales  of  love  and  lighter  thoughts  and  things. 

All  London,  or  rather  all  the  brain  of  London,  the 
literary  brain,  was  there.  And  the  brain  of  all  the 
world,  I  think,  was  in  London.  These  giants  of 
thought,  champions  of  the  beautiful  earth,  passed  the 
secrets  of  all  time  and  all  lands  before  me  like  a  mighty 
panorama.  All  night  so  !  "We  dined  so  late  that  we 
missed  breakfast.  If  I  could  remember  and  write  down 
truly  and  exactly  what  these  men  said,  I  would  have  the 
best  and  the  greatest  book  that  ever  was  written.  I 
have  been  trying  a  week  in  vain.  I  have  written  down 
and  scratched  out  and  revised  till  I  have  lost  the  soul  of 
it,  it  seems  to  me  ;  no  individuality  to  it  ;  only  like  my 
own  stuff.  If  I  only  had  set  their  words  down  on 
paper  the  next  day  instead  of  attempting  to  remem 
ber  their  thoughts  1  Alas  !  the  sheaves  have  been  tossed 
and  beaten  about  over  sea  and  land  for  days  and  days, 


THE    ROSSETTI    DINNER.  31 

till  the  golden  grain  is  gone,  and  here  is  bnt  the  straw 
and  chaff. 

The  master  sat  silent  for  the  most  part  ;  there  was  a 
little  man  away  down  at  the  other  end,  conspicuously 
modest.  There  was  a  cynical  fat  man,  and  a  lean  phil 
anthropist — all  sorts  and  sizes,  but  all  lovers  of  the 
beautiful  of  earth.  Here  is  what  one,  a  painter,  a  ruddy- 
faced  and  a  rollicking  gentleman,  remarked  merrily  to 
me  as  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  red  wine  at  the  beginning 
of  the  dinner  : 

"AVhen  travelling  in  the  mountains  of  Italy,  I  ob 
served  that  the  pretty  peasant  women  made  the  wine  by 
putting  grapes  in  a  great  tub,  and  then,  getting  into 
this  tub,  barefooted,  on  top  of  the  grapes,  treading 
them  out  with  their  brown,  bare  feet.  At  first  I  did 
not  like  to  drink  this  w^ine.  I  did  not  think  it  was 
clean.  But  I  afterward  watched  these  pretty  brown 
women"- — and  here  all  leaned  to  listen,  at  the  men 
tion  of  pretty  brown  women — "  I  watched  these  pretty 
brown  women  at  their  work  in  the  primitive  wine 
press,  and  I  noticed  that  they  always  washed  their  feet 
— after  they  got  done  treading  out  the  wine." 

All  laughed  at  this,  and  the  red-faced  painter  was  so 
delighted  that  he  poured  out  and  swallowed  another  full 
glass.  The  master  sighed  as  he  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table  rolling  a  bit  of  bread  between  thumb  and  finger, 
and  said,  sitting  close  to  me  :  "I  am  an  Italian  who 
has  never  seen  Italy.  Belle  Italia  /"  .  .  . 

By  and  by  he  quietly  said  that  silence  was  the 
noblest  attitude  in  all  things  ;  that  the  greatest  poets  re 
fused  to  write,  and  that  all  great  artists  in  all  lines  were 
above  the  folly  of  expression.  A  voice  from  far  down 
the  table  echoed  this  sentiment  by  saying  :  "  Heard 
melodies  are  sweet  :  but  unheard  melodies  are  sweeter." 


32  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

"  Written  poems  are  delicious  ;  but  unwritten  poems 
are  divine,"  cried  the  triumphant  cynic.  "  What  is 
poetry?1'  cries  a  neighbor.  "  All  true,  pure  life  is 
poetry,' '  answers  one.  "  But  the  inspiration  of  poetry  ?" 
"  The  art  of  poetry  is  in  books.  The  inspiration  of 
poetry  in  nature."  To  this  all  agreed. 

Then  the  master  very  quietly  spoke  :  "  And  yet  do 
not  despise  the  books  of  man.  All  religions,  said  the 
Chinese  philosophers,  are  good.  The  only  difference  is, 
some  religions  are  better  than  others,  and  the  apparent 
merit  of  each  depends  largely  upon  a  man's  capacity  for 
understanding  it.  This  is  true  of  poetry.  All  poetry  is 
good.  I  never  read  a  poem  in  my  life  that  did  not  have 
some  merit,  and  teach  some  sweet  lesson.  The  fault  in 
reading  the  poems  of  man,  as  well  as  reading  the  poetry 
of  nature,  lies  largely  at  the  door  of  the  reader.  Now, 
what  do  you  call  poetry  ?"  and  he  turned  his  great  Ital 
ian  eyes  tenderly  to  where  I  sat  at  his  side. 

"  To  me  a  poem  must  be  a  picture,"  I  answered. 

Proud  I  was  when  a  great  poet  then  said  :  "  And  it 
must  be  a  picture — if  a  good  poem — so  simple  that  you 
can  understand  it  at  a  glance,  eh  ?  And  see  it  and  re 
member  it  as  you  would  see  and  remember  a  sunset, 
eh?"  "Aye,"  answered  the  master,  "  I  also  demand 
that  it  shall  be  lofty  in  sentiment  and  sublime  in  expres 
sion.  The  only  rule  I  have  for  measuring  the  merits  of 
a  written  poem,  is  by  the  height  of  it.  Why  not  be 
able  to  measure  its  altitude  as  you  measure  one  of  your 
sublime  peaks  of  America  ?" 

lie  looked  at  me  as  he  spoke  of  America,  and  I  was 
encouraged  to  answer  :  "  Yes,  I  do  not  want  to  remem 
ber  the  words.  But  I  do  want  it  to  remain  with  me— a 
picture — and  become  a  part  of  my  life.  Take  this  one 
verse  from  Mr.  Longfellow  : 


THE    ROSSETTE    DINNER.  33 

"  '  And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day 
Shall  fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. '  ' 

"  Good  !"  cried  the  fat  cynic,  who,  I  am  sure,  had 
never  heard  the  couplet  before,  it  was  so  sweet  to  him  ; 
"  Good  !  There  is  a  picture  that  will  depart  from  no 
impressible  clay.  The  silent  night,  the  far  sweet 
melody  falling  on  the  weary  mind,  the  tawny  pictu 
resque  Arabs  stealing  away  in  the  darkness,  the  perfect 
peace,  the  stillness  and  the  rest !  It  appeals  to  all  the 
Ishmaelite  in  our  natures,  and  all  the  time  we  see  the 
tents  gathered  up  and  the  silent  children  of  the  desert 
gliding  away  in  the  gloaming." 

A  transplanted  American,  away  down  at  the  other 
end  by  a  little  man  among  bottles,  said  :  "  The  poem  of 
Evangeline  is  a  succession  of  pictures.  I  never  read 
Evangeline  but  once."  "  It  is  a  waste  of  time  to  look 
twice  at  a  sunset,"  said  Rossetti,  sotto  voce,  and  the  end 
man  went  on  :  u  But  I  believe  I  can  see  every  picture 
in  that  poem  as  distinctly  as  if  I  had  been  the  unhappy 
xVrcadian  ;  for  here  the  author  has  called  in  all  the  ele 
ments  that  go  to  make  up  a  perfect  poem." 

u  When  the  great  epic  of  this  new,  solid  Saxon  tongue 
comes  to  be  written,"  said  one  who  sat  near  and  was 
dear  to  the  master's  heart,  "  it  will  embrace  all  that 
this  embraces  :  new  and  unnamed  lands  ;  ships  on  the 
sea  ;  the  still  deep  waters  hidden  away  in  a  deep  and 
voiceless  continent ;  the  fresh  and  fragrant  wilderness  ; 
the  curling  smoke  of  the  camp-fire  ;  action,  movement, 
journeys  ;  the  presence  —  the  inspiring  presence  of 
woman  ;  the  ennobling  sentiment  of  love,  devotion,  and 
devotion  to  the  death  ;  faith,  hope  and  charity, — and 
all  in  the  open  air." 


34  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

' i  Yes,",  said  the  master  thoughtfully,  "no  great 
poem  has  ever  been  or  ever  will  be  fitted  in  a  parlor,  or 
even  fashioned  from  a  city.  There  is  not  room  for  it 
there." 

"  Hear  !  hear  !  yon  might  as  well  try  to  grow  a  Cali 
fornia  pine  in  the  shell  of  a  peanut,"  cried  I.  Some 
laughed,  some  applauded,  all  looked  curiously  at  me. 
Of  course,  1  did  not  say  it  that  well,  yet  I  did  say  it 
far  better.  I  mean  I  did  not  use  the  words  so  carefully, 
but  I  had  the  advantage  of  action  and  sympathy. 

Then  the  master  said,  after  a  bit  of  reflection  : 
"  Homer's  Ulysses,  out  of  which  have  grown  books 
enough  to  cover  the  earth,  owes  its  immortality  to  all 
this,  and  its  out-door  exercise.  Yet  it  is  a  bloody  book— 
a  bad  book,  in  many  respects — full  of  revenge,  treach 
ery,  avarice  and  wrong.  And  old  Ulysses  himself  seems 
to  have  been  the  most  colossal  liar  on  record.  But  for 
all  this,  the  constant  change  of  scene,  the  moving  ships 
and  the  roar  of  waters,  the  rush  of  battle  and  the  anger 
of  the  gods,  the  divine  valor  of  the  hero,  and,  above  all, 
and  over  all,  like  a  broad,  white-bosomed  rnoon  through 
the  broken  clouds,  the  splendid  life  of  that  one  woman  ; 
the  shining  faith,  the  constancy,  the  truth  and  purity  of 
Penelope — all  these  make  a  series  of  pictures  that  pass 
before  us  like  a  panorama,  and  we  will  not  leave  off 
reading  till  we  have  seen  them  all  happy  together  again, 
and  been  assured  that  the  faith  and  constancy  of  that 
woman  has  had  its  reward.  And  we  love  him,  even  if  he 
does  lie  !" 

How  all  at  that  board  leaned  and  listened.  Yet  let  me 
again  and  again  humbly  confess  to  you  that  I  do  him 
such  injustice  to  try  thus  to  quote  from  memory.  After 
a  while  he  said  :  "  Take  the  picture  of  the  old,  blind, 
slobber- mouthed  dog,  that  has  been  driven  forth  by  the 


THE    HOSSETTI    DINNER.  35 

•wooers  to  die.  For  twenty  years  lie  lias  not  heard  tlie 
voice  of  his  master.  The  master  now  conies,  in  the 
guise  of  a  beggar.  The  dog  knows  his  voice,  struggles 
to  rise  from  the  ground,  staggers  toward  him,  licks  his 
hand,  falls,  and  dies  at  his  feet." 

Such  was  the  soul,  heart,  gentleness  of  this  greatest 
man  that  I  ever  saw  walking  in  the  fields  of  art. 

After  a  while  they  talked  about  the  construction  of 
poetry. 

"  As  for  the  construction  of  a  poem,  I  hold  that  there 
never  was  a  long  poem  written  continuously,"  said  the 
master  ;  "as  a  rule,  great  poems  are  built  like  Solomon's 
temple,  section  by  section,  and  put  together  without  the 
sound  of  the  hammer.  This  brings  us  back  to  the  asser 
tion  that  all  poems  are  pictures,  and  long  poems  only  a 
succession  of  pictures  strung  together  on  some  sweet 
story  of  devotion  and  love."  And  w^ith  this  the  master 
was  a  long  time  silent. 

"  Shining  beads  on  a  blessed  rosary,"  piped  in  a 
little  poet  not  before  heard  from,  away  down  among  the 
bottles,  as  he  lifted  his  beaded  glass  of  wine  high  in  his 
hand  and  adjusted  the  glasses  on  his  nose  preparatory  to 
drinking,  lest  they  might  fall  into  the  glass. 

"  I  find,"  said  one,  after  a  good  deal  of  skirmishing 
and  idle  talk,  "  that  great  poems  are  oftener  born  of 
accident  than  design.  In  looking  over  the  original 
manuscripts  of  Childe  Harold  at  Newstead  Abbey  last 
summer,  I  noticed  that  Lord  Byron  had  first  written  it 
Oliikle  Byron,  instead  of  Childe  Harold.  And  it  was 
clearly  evident  that  it  was  not  meant  for  publication  at 
lirst,  but  only  as  a  brief  chronicle  of  his  own  sentiments 
and  sad  life  on  setting  out  on  his  pilgrimage." 

Again  the  advocate  of  silence,  the  master,  was 
heard  :  u  To  me  every  man  or  woman  who  loves  the 


3G  MEMOlilE    AND    KI.MK. 

beautiful  is  a  poet.  The  gift  of  expression  is  a  separate 
affair  altogether.  I  am  certain  that  the  greatest,  sweet 
est,  and  the  purest  poets  upon  earth  are  silent  people — - 
silent  as  the  flowers.  Pictures  of  the  beautiful  are  as 
frequent  to  all  really  refined  natures  as  are  the  flowers  of 
the  field.  Yet  only  one  in  millions  has  the  gift  and 
power  of  expression." 

"  To  me  the  savage  or  the  negro  is  a  truer  poet  than 
the  scholar  of  Oxford,"  cried  a  lover  of  Walt  Whit 
man.  "  They  may  have  been  alike  born  with  a  love  of 
the  beautiful,  but  the  scholar,  shut  up  within  the  gloomy 
walls  with  his  eyes  to  a  dusty  book,  has  forgotten  the 
face  of  nature,  and  learned  only  the  art  of  utterance.  He 
has  been  at  school  all  his  life." 

"  Been  at  school  all  his  life  !  Poor  man  !  How  ig 
norant  he  must  be,"  sighed  the  fat  cynic. 

A  great  deal  of  merriment  followed  this,  and  finally 
some  one  talked  of  alliteration.  But  the  great  master 
sat  silent,  and  did  not  venture  to  talk  on  this  theme. 

"  As  to  the  verbal  construction  of  a  poem,"  piped  the 
little  man  among  the  bottles,  "  add  all  the  decoration 
you  can  without  covering  up  the  proud  proportions  of 
your  structure.  The  world  is  round,  and  we  are  getting 
back  to  the  soft  vowel  sounds  of  the  old  Greek  kings  of 
thought,  who,  if  they  ever  knew  the  art  of  rhyme,  had 
the  good  sense  to  disdain  it,  and  use  only  alliteration  and 
soft,  assonant  words.  Tennyson,  Browning,  Morris, 
Swinburne  and  the  master,  Rossetti,  though  they  dis 
agree  in  many  things,  are  unanimous  in  alliteration  and 
soft  sounds.  Take  a  familiar  example  from  Tennyson  : 

"  '  I  hold  this  true  whate'er  befall ; 
I  feel  it  when  I  sorrow  most  ; 
'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all.' 


THE    ROSSETTI    DIXXER.  37 

Here  is  not  only  soft,  liquid  alliteration,  hut  the 
vowels  fall  in,  all  through  the  little  couplet,  in  a  sad 
musical  sort  of  a  way  that  gives  us  both  sentiment  and 
song  together."  Then  the  man  beyond  the  bottles  gave 
a  verse  from  Atalanta  and  Calydon  : 

"  Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one  light, 

There  is  help  if  the  heavens  have  one  ; 
Though  the  skies  be  discrowned  of  the  sunlight 

And  the  earth  dispossessed  of  the  sun, 
We  have  moonlight  and  sleep  for  repayment, 

When,  refreshed  as  a  bride  and  set  free, 
With  the  stars  and  sea-winds  in  her  raiment, 

Night  sinks  on  the  sea." 

I  remember  a  long  pause  here  ;  some  changed  seats  ; 
the  dinner  resolved  itself  into  a  sort  of  mass,  or  a  blend 
ing  together  of  souls  that  attracted  souls  ;  there  was 
more  wine,  much  smoke,  some  laughter,  and  some  stories 
of  love.  But  over  all  that  was  said  or  done  or  thought 
shone  like  a  halo  this  one  delight — the  love  of  the  beau 
tiful. 

By  and  by  the  master  began,  half  sad,  half  humor 
ously,  and  carelessly  and  indifferently  threw  out  this 
little  thought  :  u  Thousands  of  years  ago  a  poet  said,  by 
way  of  illustration,  and  in  a  forceful  argument  for  charity 
for  all,  for  the  good  in  all  things,  beauty  in  all  thing?, 
that  even  the  toad,  repulsive  as  it  seemed,  has  a  jewel 
in  its  head.  And  so  the  dull,  passive  world  accepted  it 
literally,  and  has  gone  on  saying,  '  The  toad  hath  a  jewel 
in  its  head.'  I  suspect  millions  of  toads  have  been  killed 
by  seekers  after  the  traditional  jewel.  O  my  friends, 
go  out  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  in  your  garden,  and 
there  in  the  green  grass  of  the  fence  corner  fall  down  on 
your  knees,  and  look  the  panting  little  toad  in  the  face — 


38  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

look  in  liis  soft,  tender,  love-lit  and  liquid  eyes,  and  you 
will  understand.  No,  no  ;  all  jewels  are  not  to  be  worn 
in  rings  and  weighed  in  scales  and  sold  at  a  pawn-shop. 
The  prettiest  jewels,  God  hangs  on  the  grass,  hides~m  the 
light  of  the  soft  eyes  of  the  toad,  and  forbids  you  to 
touch  them.  Oh,  it  is  a  beautiful,  beautiful  world  ! 
Only  let  us  have  capacity  to  see  the  beauty  that  is  in  it, 
and  we  will  see  nothing  that  is  ugly  at  all — nothing  that 
is  evil  at  all." 

But  I  have  gone  too  far  in  this  already.  I  have  pro 
faned  this  great  man  and  occasion  quite  enough,  and 
shall  attempt  to  quote  no  more  of  his  wonderful  utter 
ances.  Yet  I  shall  go  on  with  this  thought— these 
thoughts  and  fancies— further  still.  As  one  who  has  set 
out  upon  a  journey  and  finds  that  the  sun  has  gone  down 
before  he  has  yet  reached  the  end  continues  to  go  on 
the  way  he  was  directed  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  so  I, 
for  a  few  paces  more,  shall  try  to  express  something  of 
these  teachings,  so  in  accord  witli  my  own  early  notions 
of  poetry  and  taste. 

WHAT    13    POETRY  ? 

What  was  the  poetry  of  Paradise?  What  was 
poetry  before  poetry  was  written  ?  Beauty  !  Beauty  of 
soul,  thought,  form,  passion,  expression — beauty,  visi 
ble  and  invisible.  The  flight  of  a  bird  through  the  air 
was  a  song.  The  sound  of  the  wind  through  the  trees 
of  Paradise,  where  every  bursting  bud  was  a  miracle,  as 
it  is  now,  where  every  leaf  was  an  inspiration,  as  it  is 

now these  were  the  minor  poems  read  and  understood 

by  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  beginning  of  the  world.  The 
wide-winged  ship  in  the  middle  of  the  sea,  pointing 
straight  to  its  course  through  its  white  path  of  foam, 
as  commerce  grew,  guided  by  the  North  Star  and 


WHAT    IS    POETRY?  30 

making  no  mistake,  bearing  in  its  bosom  its  little  world 
of  love  and  faith  and  trust  and  truth  and  hope — this  is 
of  itself  an  epic.  The  bugle-call  to  battle,  the  shouts  of 
men  and  the  neighing  of  horses,  the  roar  of  cannon,  the 
waving  banners — here  is  something  sinfully  poetic.  The 
spotted  cattle  on  the  hills,  the  winding  rivers  through 
the  valleys,  the  surging  white  seas  against  the  granite 
shores — all  life,  all  action  that  is  beautiful  and  grand  and 
good  is  poetry,  waiting  for  expression.  The  world  is 
one  great  poem,  because  it  is  very  grand,  very  good, 
and  very  beautiful. 

I  once  strolled  through  a  miserable  Mexican  village. 
The  ships  went  silently  down  the  deep  river  to  the 
great  sea  ;  the  flashing  mountain  of  snow  in  the  dy 
ing  sun  w^as  like  a  mighty  fortress  of  flame  in  the  dis 
tance.  The  shadows  were  creeping  over  the  cabins, 
where  women  came  and  went  in  silence,  and  men  sat 
smoking  at  the  cabin-doors,  while  children  played  in 
swarms  by  the  water.  The  air  was  like  a  breath  of  God, 
and  all  nature  seemed  as  sacred  as  rest  to  a  weary  man. 
A  black,  bent,  old  negro  woman,  all  patches  from  head 
to  foot,  frosty-headed  and  half-blind,  came  crooning 
forth  with  a  broken  crock  tied  together,  in  which  she 
had  planted  a  flower  to  grow  by  her  door.  I  stopped, 
watched  her  set  it  down  and  arrange  it.  And  then,  not 
wishing  to  stare  rudely  at  this  bent,  old  creature,  I  said, 
"  Good  evening,  auntie;  it's  a  pretty  evening."  She 
slowly  straightened  up,  looked  at  me,  looked  away  at  the 
fading  sunlight  on  the  hills,  and  said  softly,  "  Oh,  it's  a 
pretty  world,  massa  !" 

That  old  woman  was  a  poetess — a  prophetess.  She 
had  a  soul  to  see  the  beauty,  the  poetry  about  her.  "  Oh, 
it's  a  pretty  world,  massa  !''  She  had  no  other  form 
of  expression,  but  that  was  enough.  Hers  was  the 


40  MEMOniE    AXD    RIME. 

pass-word  to  nature.     "  And  God  saw  everything  that 
lie  had  made,  and,  behold,  it  was  very  good." 

This  and  similar  cases  found  among  the  lowly  peo 
ple,  persuade  us  that  these  are  the  poets  of  the  earth, 
and  from  among  them  some  day  will  walk  forth  a  Burns. 
They  are  the  truest  lovers  of  a  beautiful  world — these 
negroes  with  their  tranquil  natures,  the  Indians  with 
their  deep  insight,  their  silent  dignity,  and  their  awful 
reverence  for  the  God  of  Nature.  They  are  content 
with  the  world.  To  them  it  is  indeed  beautiful.  The 
silent  savages  and  the  patient  negroes,  people  who  can 
not  read  their  names,  in  the  purity,  in  the  poetic  simplic 
ity  of  their  natures,  repeat  almost  the  very  words  of 
the  prophet  thousands  of  years  ago  :  "  And  God  saw 
everything  that  He  had  made,  and,  behold,  it  was  very 
good." 

When  we  believe  the  world  to  be  good  and  beauti 
ful,  when,  in  fact,  wTe  can  see  poetry  in  nature,  we  may, 
in  the  course  of  time,  learn  to  express  that  poetry  by 
rules  of  art,  and  so  be  a  race  of  poets. 

In  Italy  you  see  a  man  lie  down  under  a  fig  tree, 
sleep  as  if  in  a  palace,  and  wake  up  singing  an  opera 
without  a  centime  in  his  pocket.  He  looks  about  him, 
and  he  sees  that  the  world  is  very  beautiful.  He  sees 
beauty  in  all  things.  He  is  tranquil,  content,  glad,  and 
full  of  faith  and  hope  arid  charity.  And  so  they  are  a 
race  of  poets  in  Italy,  of  painters  and  sculptors.  An 
Italian  beggar  is  happier,  a  thousand  times  happier,  than 
any  prince  of  fortune  I  ever  saw.  He  accepts  grate 
fully  the  beautiful  world  that  the  good  God  has  given 
him  ;  he  loves  it,  and  he  is  glad.  And  I  somehow  some 
times  think  this  is  very  near  the  purpose  of  man's  crea 
tion,  and  not  far,  not  very  far,  from  the  true  religion. 

For  my  part,  I  would  rather  choose  your  village  poet 


WHAT    JS    POETRY?  41 

for  my  companion,  no  matter  whether  lie  expressed 
poetry  or  not,  only  so  that  it  was  felt,  much  rather 
than  your  mayor  or  your  member  of  Congress  ;  for  he 
is  a  lover  of  the  beautiful,  and  is  therefore  himself 
beautiful  in  soul,  and  akin  to  the  things  of  beauty. 

I  was  once  riding  alone  over  the  mountains  of  Du- 
rango  in  North  Mexico,  when  I  was  overtaken  by  what  I 
thought  to  be  a  band  of  robbers.  There  was  no  escap 
ing  them— there  was  but  this  one  mountain  road  climbing 
up  the  back  of  the  great,  steep,  rugged  mountain — and 
so  I  did  the  best  I  could — joined  them,  and  fell  into  con 
versation  with  the  leader,  half  expecting  all  the  time  to 
be  murdered.  At  last  as  we  climbed  the  lofty  summit 
and  looked  down  over  the  rich  valley  with  its  cool 
waters  winding  through  it,  this  black,  hard-looking 
Mexican  reined  his  mule,  lifted  his  hat,  and  looking 
over  the  valley  exclaimed,  u  Que  hermosa  !" — "  How 
beautiful  !"  I  felt  no  fear  after  that.  We  slept  together 
that  night,  and  he  told  me — this  man  who  could  not  read 
— told  me  many  pretty  things  for  my  book. 

lie  was  a  poet — a  poet  without  expression — a  better 
poet  than  I,  a  thousand  times  better.  To  these  poets, 
these  lovers  of  the  beautiful,  these  silent  thinkers,  these 
mighty  mountaineers,  far  away  from  the  rush  and  roar 
of  commerce,  these  men  wrho  have  room  and  strength 
and  the  divine  audacity  to  think  and  to  act  for  them 
selves — to  these  men  who  dare  to  have  heart  and  enthu 
siasm,  who  love  the  beautiful  world  that  the  Creator 
made  for  them,  I  look  for  the  leaven  of  our  loaf. 

The  mighty  march  of  the  seasons  is  perhaps  the  sub- 
limest  poem  in  nature.  The  blowing  clouds  with  their 
fringes  of  fire,  the  forked  lightning — all  the  elements  are 
awful  in  their  beauty,  and  every  movement  in  the  air  is  a 
miracle.  Then  on  the  earth,  the  flashing  fields  of  yellow 


42  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

wheat,  the  tall  and  tasselled  corn,  the  woods  with  the 
hues  of  autumn,  the  scarlet  beech  tree,  the  burning  bush 
where  Moses  saw  the  face  of  God — this  is  poetry. 

Would  you  like  to  know  the  secret  of  happiness  ? — a 
secret  that  no  navigator  ever  brought  from  the  sea — a 
secret  that  no  merchant  prince  was  ever  rich  enough  to 
purchase  ?  I  will  tell  you.  The  secret  of  happiness  is 
the  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  in  nature — the  appre 
ciation  of  God's  unwritten  poetry.  Ah,  you  are  disap 
pointed  !  You  expected  me  to  tell  you  how  to  make  a 
fortune — how  to  be  famous.  Do  not  be  mistaken.  The 
secret  of  happiness  is  the  love  of  the  beautiful.  The 
secret  of  happiness  is  the  appreciation  of  unwritten 
poetry.  It  has  been  my  singular  fortune  to  meet  and 
mingle  with  many  famous  men.  I  have  sat  at  great 
men's  feet.  They  have  not,  as  a  rule,  found  the  secret 
of  happiness,  nor  have  they  been  able  to  purchase  it. 
None  of  them  have  seemed  so  happy  to  me  as  that  old 
white-headed  negress  with  the  broken  flower-pot  by  the 
Mexican  seas.  How  good  is  the  good  God  !  for  beauty  is 
as  free  for  us  all  as  the  winds  of  heaven. 

But  you  say  you  cannot  appreciate  beauty  as  I  do. 
Have  you  tried  ?  Have  you  tried  as  hard  to  appreciate 
the  beauty  of  a  field  as  to  possess  it  ?  Have  you  tried  a 
hundredth  part  as  hard  to  appreciate  beauty  as  you  have 
to  accumulate  wealth  ?  Have  you  given  the  subject  one 
hour  a  day  ?  one  minute  a  day  ?  Have  you  ever 
thought  of  it  at  all  ?  If  you  have,  you  are  just  that 
much  happier  than  the  one  wealthiest  man  I  ever  met. 

But  you  cannot  read  the  sibyl  books  of  nature  while 
you  are  counting  your  coins.  Nature  is  a  jealous  God. 
Man  is  strong,  but  he  cannot  hold  the  four  winds  in  his 
hand  at  once.  He  is  very  tall,  but  he  cannot  pluck  the 
stars  standing  in  the  mud. 


WHAT    IS    POETRY?  43 

Bring  a  nude  savage  into  your  library  and  let  him  look 
at  your  books.  Of  what  good  are  they  to  him  ?  The 
beauty,  the  valor,  the  virtue  that  is  chronicled  there,  the 
mighty  deeds — they  are  indeed  a  sealed  book.  He  does 
not  even  know  the  alphabet.  It  would  take  him  five, 
ten,  twenty  years  to  master  the  mysteries  of  these  works 
of  man.  Well,  nature's  book,  too,  has  an  alphabet,  and 
we  are  even  more  blind  and  helpless  than  that  savage, 
for  he  has  read  and  does  understand  the  book  of  nature 
from  which  the  books  of  man  were  all  copied,  while 
we,  proud,  blind,  and  vain  of  our  knowledge  of  the 
books  of  men,  know  nothing  of  the  source  of  all.  Were 
I  a  great  preacher,  or  speaker  of  any  kind,  I  would  make 
it  my  mission  to  teach  this  one  lesson  to  America — the 
love  of  the  beautiful.  Then  would  I  teach  the  true 
poetry,  and  my  country  would  be  a  world  of  poets.  Wo 
would  then  be  a  happy,  religious,  contented  and  cult 
ured  people,  instead  of  a  race  of  vulgar  and  suspicious 
money-getting  merchants,  with  our  laws  of  bankruptcy 
and  splended  system  of  failures. 

Where  is  Tyre,  Thebes,  Babylon  ?  They  were  capK 
tals  of  commerce,  but  they  gave  the  world  no  poet. 
They  very  properly  perished  from  the  earth— all  but  in 
name.  And  but  for  the  poets  of  Jerusalem  not  even 
their  names  would  have  reached  us.  Jerusalem  is  in 
deed  a  city  set  upon  a  hill.  Her  sublime  poets,  another 
name  for  prophets,  her  lovers  of  the  beautiful,  have 
made  her  the  centre  of  the  universe.  Little  Greece  to 
day  spreads  broader  over  the  map  of  your  mind  than  all 
Europe,  Asia  and  Africa  together,  save  Jerusalem. 
Why  ?  Because  she  was  a  lover  of  the  beautiful,  and 
she  therefore  had  poets  to  give  expression  to  that  love  of 
beauty. 

We  take  lessons  in   French  at  school,  in  art,  in  litera- 


44  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

tare — a  thousand  tilings  ;  a  thousand  lessons  from  the 
hooks  of  men,  hut  not  one  lesson  from  the  hook  of  nature. 
Are  our  fathers  afraid  that  we  will  not  huild  our  com 
mercial  Tyre  fast  enough  ?  Are  they  afraid  if  they 
teach  us  to  look  into  the  heavens  for  the  beauty  of  the 
stars,  we  will  forget  to  look  into  the  mud  for  money  ? 

Get  acquainted  with  the  world  you  live  in.  It  will 
seem  better  and  more  beautiful  as  you  get  acquainted 
with  it.  I  saw  a  student  at  Dartmouth  college  last  year 
walking  in  the  forest  with  his  face  to  a  book.  It  was  an 
insult  to  nature.  The  mighty,  mossy  trees  there  reach 
ing  their  long,  strong  arms  in  silent  eloquence,  were  de 
spised.  He  could  not  read  his  book  there,  nor  did  he 
love  nature,  or  he  would  not  have  attempted  it.  That 
student  walking  there  may  in  time  fill  his  memory,  but 
his  heart  will  be  forever  empty — his  heart  will  be  as 
cold  and  empty  as  a  dead  man's  hand. 

To  me  the  grandest  poem  on  earth  is  night  in  a  deep 
half-tropical  forest.  There  is  nothing  so  mighty,  so 
Miltonic  as  this — the  myriad  voice  of  night.  When  I 
was  living  in  the  southern  Sierras,  one  of  our  great 
preachers  came  that  way.  I  by  chance  got  to  talking 
with  him  about  the  voices  and  the  noises  of  night  high 
up  on  the  mountains.  He  was  honestly  amazed.  He 
said  he  thought  the  world  slept  for  the  night.  I  told 
him  that  only  man  slept  in  the  wilderness,  that  he  would 
find  the  wrorld  very  much  awake  if  he  would  spend  a 
night  high  up  from  the  habitations  of  man.  He  was 
resolved  to  see.  And  so  with  two  blankets  and  two  pis 
tols,  some  bread  and  a  bottle  of  water,  we  climbed 
up  the  steep,  timbered  mountain  a  mile  above  any  habi 
tation.  We  spread  our  blankets  under  a  mighty  tree. 
"We  saw  the  day  fade  and  die  on  the  far,  forked  snow- 
peaks,  and  its  ghost  came  down  in  darkness  and  covered 


WHAT   IS    POETRY?  45 

us  with  its  wings.  The  first  tiling  we  heard  was  a  great, 
black  bug  that  came  buzzing  along.  It  struck  the  bark 
of  the  tree,  and  fell  down  on  the  doctor's  blanket. 
Nothing  dangerous  in  a  bug.  The  doctor  was  delighted. 
He  caught  it  up,  classified  it  with  a  Latin  name  big 
enough  to  kill  it,  put  a  pin  through  it,  and  resolved  to 
keep  it  as  a  specimen  and  trophy  of  the  night.  Sud 
denly,  far  across  on  the  other  mountain-side,  there  rose 
the  howl  of  a  hundred  wolves.  Then  a  thousand  wolves 
high  above  us  on  the  mountain-top  made  the  woods 
tremble.  The  doctor  was  not  a  bit  frightened.  He  only 
pat  up  a  little  closer  to  me,  and  whispered  gently  that  he 
thought  it  was  going  to  rain.  Then  a  broad-winged 
bird,  a  black  owl,  struck  in  the  boughs  above  us  as  if  it 
meant  to  tear  down  the  tree.  u  I  am  subject  to  rheu 
matism,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  I  don't  want  to  get 
wet."  Then  there  came  a  crash  !  A  great  grizzly  bear, 
that  evidently  had  business  in  somebody's  hog-pen,  tore 
down  through  the  brush  and  woods  on  his  way  to  the 
settlement.  Possibly  the  doctor  wanted  that  bear  for  a 
specimen  also,  for  he  sprang  up,  forgot  his  bug,  and 
started  for  the  nearest  house,  lie  should  have  waited  to 
see  the  moon  come  wheeling  up  and  out  of  the  Sierras, 
white  and  vast  as  the  snow-peaks,  as  she  laid  her  broad 
shoulders  bare  to  the  white  clouds  dragging  through  the 
dark  pines  ;  to  hear  the  far,  faint  call  of  the  night 
birds,  the  beasts — the  thousand  notes  in  the  poetry  and 
song  of  nature  at  night. 

I  would  say,  learn  to  read  the  book  of  nature  every 
day  around  you — all  is  open  before  you — and  then  the 
books  of  men  will  be  simple  things,  for  the  greater  in 
cludes  the  less.  Love  and  comprehend  beauty,  for  then 
you  will  love  and  comprehend  the  world.  The  Yen- 
dome  Column  of  France  is  mounted  by  the  figure  of  a 


46  MEMORIE   AND    KIME. 

mighty  soldier.  The  colossal  figure  of  a  sailor  looks 
down  through  the  smoke  of  London  from  Trafalgar 
Square.  But  the  poet  and  the  painter,  the  lovers  of  the 
beautiful,  look  calmly  down  upon  you  from  the  high 
niches  of  Italy — and  to  which  of  these  lands  does  the 
heat  turn  most  tenderly  ?  This  love  of  the  beautiful, 
another  name  for  poetry — this  worship  of  the  beautiful, 
is  the  best  that  is  in  us.  Study  it  every  day,  when  you 
walk,  when  you  ride,  when  you  rest  by  the  roadside 
— the  flight  of  a  bird  gracefully  drooping,  curving 
through  the  air  ;  the  shape  and  tint  of  a  single  autumn 
leaf  ;  the  sweet  curled  moon  in  the  Leavens  ;  the  still,  far 
stars  ;  the  presence  of  a  proud,  pure  woman,  the  lifted 
face — the  lovely  lifted  face  as  she  looks  into  space  for 
God. 

If  you  \vill  take  the  pains  to  consider  this  a  moment — 
and  you  ought  to  give  it  years  of  consideration — you  will 
find  that  all  things  are  beautiful,  or  trying  to  be  beauti 
ful  ;  the  whole  earth,  all  things  on  the  earth  or  in  the 
sea — everything  is  struggling  all  the  time  for  some  ex 
pression  of  beauty.  The  law  of  the  beautiful  is  as  gen 
eral  and  as  absolute  as  the  law  of  gravitation.  You  may 
drop  the  vilest  piece  of  earth  on  the  roadside  as  you 
pass.  You  come  along  next  year  and  find  it  giving  some 
expression  of  beauty  in  little  flowers,  or  tall,  strange 
weeds,  or  little  mosses  that  lift  a  thousand  perfect  spears 
and  spangles  from  out  its  velvet  carpet. 

Yet  you  cannot  come  to  love  the  beautiful  in  a  day  or 
to  understand  nature  utterly,  after  having  forgotten  her 
from  your  birth.  You  shall  not  rush  into  her  temples 
with  soiled  hands  and  benumbed  soul,  and  be  glad.  She 
will  cast  you  out  if  you  attempt  it.  On  entering  the 
Mosque  at  Constantinople  they  made  me  take  off  my 
shoes,  bow  my  head  and  be  silent,  in  this  temple  of  man. 


WHAT    IS    I'OETKY?  47 

How  much  more  sacred  are  the  temples  of  nature ! 
Democratic  and  accessible  as  she  is,  she  must  have  at 
least  something  of  the  respect  that  we  pay  to  man.  You 
must  pass  into  her  temple  by  degrees.  It  is  a  half-life's 
journey  to  her  heart  from  the  outer  door,  where  you 
must  leave  your  shoes  as  you  enter, 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  hear  a  young  miss  talk  of  the 
beauties  of  nature,  with  her  mouth  full,  and  foolishly,  as 
she  laughs  and  takes  honest  delight  with  her  young 
friends  at  the  picnic.  I  like  her  :  she  is  honest,  she  is 
impulsive,  she  is  good  ;  I  reach  her  my  hand,  and  I 
would  like  to  lift  her  higher  ;  but  her  prattle  is  profan 
ity.  She  has  been  shut  up  in  a  school-house  all  her  life. 
She  talks  of  the  beauty  of  nature  because  it  is  getting  to 
be  the  fashion.  She  could  not  tell  a  pawpaw  leaf  from 
the  leaf  of  a  poplar.  She  could  walk  with  her  lover  in  a 
iield,  praising  the  color  and  texture  of  the  weeds  and 
grasses  under  foot,  and  then  as  likely  as  not  sit  down  in 
a  nest  of  nettles. 

Xo,  you  cannot  walk  the  moment  you  are  born  upon 
earth  ;  you  cannot  swim  without  some  effort  ;  you  can 
not  read  even  the  books  of  imitative  man  without  long 
and  patient  study.  Pray  do  not  be  so  vain  as  to  imagine 
you  can  read  the  books  of  nature  any  more  easily  after 
all  your  long  neglect  of  her.  You  must  ascend  a  moun 
tain  step  by  step.  Wealth  will  not  help  you.  I  imagine, 
indeed,  that  the  less  gold  you  have  to  carry  on  -your 
shoulders  as  you  climb  up  the  height,  the  less  trouble 
you  will  have  in  the  ascent. 

The  life  of  a  great  good  man  is  a  poem,  written  or 
unwritten.  Life  is  poetry,  because  life  is  beauty,  and 
the  world  is  one  vast  unwritten  poem.  When  you  go 
out  in  the  world  at  night  lift  yonr  face  to  the  storm,  or 
to  the  myriad  stars,  and  be  glad.  They  are  poetry  : 


43  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

"  When  the  morning  stars  sang  together."  There  is 
more  gold  in  a  single  little  star  than  in  all  the  dirt  of  the 
earth.  A  storm  is  so  beautiful  !  Listen  to  the  winds 
and  love  them  ;  they  are  just  fresh,  let  loose  from  the 
hand  of  God.  Love  'the  tranquil  summer,  the  golden 
autumn,  the  silvered  moon  overhead  and  the  rustling 
leaves  under  foot.  In  the  depths  of  winter  lift  your 
face  to  the  pure  white  snow,  for  every  flake  is  a  palace 
for  a  fairy.  And  love  the  rushing  rain — the  wide 
and  white- winged  angel,  rain.  See  beauty,  grandeur, 
goodness  in  all  things  ;  for  this  is  poetry,  so  free  for  all. 
And  the  lovers  of  the  beautiful  world  are  brothers  and 
sisters  :  they  are  the  true  poets  of  the  universe. 


Across  the  broad,  brown,  peaceful  hills, 
With  blossoms  to  our  bronchos'  knees, 

With  singing  birds  by  broken  rills, 
We  rode  through  seas  of  drowsy  bees. 

The,  ardor  of  myjpeech  grew  still 
As  we  rode  on  that  perfect  day, 

Ttie  brown  birds  piping  from  the  hill; 
The  crickets  had  it  their  own  way. 

Then  we  fell  weary  with  the  day. 

God's  bars  of  gold  across  the  west 
Before  us  drew  and  bade  us  stay 

Beside  a  blossomed  rill  and  rest. 

The  camp-fire  blazed,  the  bronchos  grazed, 
And  belly-deep  in  bloom  and  grass 

Would  blink  as  by  the  bright  Jlame  dazed, 
Or  sniff  to  smell  the  panther  pass. 

The  massive  stars  of  gold  stood  out, 
Bright  camp-fires  of  poor,  weary  souls 

Bound  heavenward.     While  all  about 
Couched  peace,  with  blossoms  for  patrols. 


II. 

IN    CALIFOKlSriA, 


I. 

OLD    CALIFORNIA. 

San  Francisco,  October  5,  1871.  Again  in  the 
golden  West,  where  we  are  baptized  in  the  fire  of  the 
setting  sun,  and  all  things  have  a  line,  a  fervor,  a 
flavor  all  their  own.  Civilization  took  a  mighty  step 
when  she  set  her  foot  from  the  shores  of  England  to 
those  of  America.  Manhood  took  a  still  broader  stride 
from  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic  to  those  of  the  Pacific. 
England  is  honest,  good,  great.  There  is,  indeed,  more 
solid  honesty  in  one  square  foot  of  England  than  in  all 
Gotham  ;  but  she  is  far  behind  America  in  the  salient 
features  of  civilization. 

But  what  is  civilization  ?  Is  it  heart  ?  Humanity  ? 
I  think  so.  Certainly  it  is  not  in  strength  of  armies  or 
might  of  cannon.  But  whatever  it  is,  commend  me  to 
the  old  Californian.  I  should  say  that  an  old  gold 
hunter  of  '-19,  standing  on  a  peak  of  the  Sierras  with  the 
world  behind  him,  storm-blown  and  beaten,  yet  with 
hands  and  heart  open,  unsullied  by  any  sin  of  the  popu 
lous  world  below,  stands  not  far  from  God. 


f>2  MK.MORIE    AND    RIME. 

They  climb'd  the  rock-built  breasts  ot  earth, 

The  Titan-fronted,  blowy  steeps 

That  cradled  Time  .   .  .  Where  Freedom  keeps 

Her  flag  of  white-blown  stars  unfurl 'd, 

They  turn'd  about,  they  saw  the  birth 

Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  world  : 

Again  they  gazed  ;  they  saw  the  face 

Of  God,  and  named  it  boundless  space. 

All,  there  have  been  clouds  in  the  old  Californian's 
life,  storms  and  wrecks,  and  years  of  clouds.  And 
even  still  there  are  more  than  enough  in  the  West  to 
make  the  sunset  glorious.  But  the  world  is  away  off 
to  him.  He  has  memories— a  lock  of  hair  in  his  hand, 
a  little  song  in  his  heart.  He  lives  alone  in  the  past. 
Life,  love — all  with  him  are  over  ;  "but  he  does  not  com 
plain.  May  he  strike  it  yet  in  the  shaft  he  is  still  sink 
ing,  in  the  great  tunnel  he  is  still  boring  into  the  moun 
tains,  and  go  back  to  his  waiting  wife  and  babes.  Alas  ! 
his  babes  are  full-grown ;  he  will  never  see  his  babies 
any  more. 

It  is  to  be  allowed  that  these  men  were  not  at  all  care 
ful  of  the  laws,  either  ancient  or  modern,  ecclesiastical  or 
lay.  They  would  curse.  They  would  fight  like  dogs- 
aye,  like  Christians  in  battle.  But  there  was  more  solid 
honor  among  those  men  than  the  world  will  ever  see 
again  in  any  body  of  men,  I  fear,  till  it  approaches  the 
millennium.  Is  it  dying  out  with  them  ?  I  find  that 
the  new  Californians  are  rather  common  cattle. 

Do  you  know  where  the  real  old  Californian  is  ?— the 
giant,  the  world-builder  ? 

He  is  sitting  by  the  trail  high  up  on  the  mountain. 
His  eyes  are  dim,  and  his  head  is  white.  His  hands  are 
not  strong.  His  pick  and  shovel  are  at  his  side.  His  feet 
are  weary  and  sore,  He  is  still  prospecting.  Pretty 
soon  he  will  sink  his  last  prospect-hole  in  the  Sierra. 


OLD    CALIFORNIA.  53 

Some  younger  men  will  come  along,  and  lengthen  it 
out  a  little,  and  lay  him  in  his  grave.  The  old  miner 
will  have  passed  on  to  prospect  the  outcroppings  that 
etar  the  floors  of  heaven. 

lie  is  not  numerous  now  ;  but  I  saw  him  last  summer 
high  up  on  the  head  waters  of  the  Sacramento.  His 
face  is  set  forever  away  from  that  civilization  which  has 
passed  him  by.  He  is  called  a  tramp  now.  And  the 
new,  nice  people  who  have  slid  over  the  plains  in  a  palace 
car  and  settled  down  there,  set  dogs  on  him  sometimes 
when  he  comes  that  way. 

I  charge  yon,  treat  the  old  California!!  well  wherever 
you  find  him.  He  has  seen  more,  suffered  more,  prac 
tised  more  self-denial  than  can  now  fall  to  the  lot  of 
any  man. 

I  never  see  one  of  these  old  prospectors  without  think 
ing  of  Ulysses,  and  wondering  if  any  Penelope  still 
weaves  and  unweaves,  and  waits  the  end  of  his  wander 
ings.  AVill  any  old  blind  dog  stagger  forth  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  lick  his  hand,  and  fall  down  at  his  feet  ? 

No,  he  will  never  return.  lie  has  not  heard  from  home 
for  twenty  years.  He  would  not  find  even  the  hearth 
stone  of  his  cabin  by  the  Ohio,  should  he  return.  Per 
haps  liis  own  son,  a  merchant  prince  or  the  president  of 
a  railroad,  is  one  of  the  distinguished  party  in  the  palace 
car  that  smokes  along  the  plain  far  below. 

And  though  he  may  die  there  in  the  pines  on  the 
mighty  mountain,  while  still  feebly  searching  for  the 
golden  fleece,  do  not  forget  that  his  life  is  an  epic,  noble 
as  any  handed  down  from  out  the  dusty  eld.  I  implore 
you  treat  him  kindly.  Some  day  a  fitting  poet  will 
come,  and  then  he  will  take  his  place  among  the  heroes 
and  the  gods. 

CD 

But  there  is  another  old  Californian,  a  wearier  man, 


54  MEMORIE    AKD    RIME. 

tlie  successful  one.  He,  too,  is  getting  gray.  But  lie  is 
a  power  in  the  land.  He  is  a  prince  in  fact  and  in  act. 
What  strange  fate  was  it  that  threw  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
that  old  Californian,  sitting  by  the  trail  high  up  on  the 
mountain,  and  blinded  him  so  that  he  could  not  see  the 
gold  just  within  his  grasp  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  ? 
And  what  good  fairy  was  it  that  led  this  other  old  Cali- 
fornian,  now  the  banker,  the  railroad  king,  or  senator, 
to  where  the  mountain  gnomes  had  hidden  their  gold  of 
old? 

What  accidental  beggars  and  princes  we  have  in  the 
world  to-day  ?  But  whether  beggar  or  prince,  the  old 
Californian  stands  a  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  his 
fellows  wherever  you  may  find  him.  This  is  a  solid, 
granite  truth. 

Our  dead  are  the  mighty  majority  of  old  Californians  ! 
No  one  would  guess  how  numerous  they  are.  Califor 
nia  was  one  vast  battlefield.  The  knights  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  lie  buried  in  her  bosom  ;  while  here  and 
there,  over  the  mountain-tops,  totters  a  lone  survivor, 
still  prospecting, 

' '  And  I  sit  here,  at  forty  year, 
Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine." 

There  is  an  older  Californian  still — "  the  oldest  inhab 
itant,"  indeed.  I  knew  him,  a  lusty  native,  a  quarter  of 
a  century  ago,  in  the  impenetrable  forests  and  lava,  beds 
around  the  base  of  Mount  Shasta.  He,  too,  is  dead  ; 
dead  in  spirit  at  least,  if  not  altogether  in  fact. 

If  valor,  is  a  virtue,  let  us  at  least  concede  that  to  the 
red  man  of  the  California  mountains.  There  were  bat 
tles  fought  here  between  the  miners  and  red  men  before 
General  Canby  was  ever  heard  of.  They  were  bloody 
battles,  too.  But  they  never  got  to  the  ears  of  the 


OLD    CALIFORNIA.  55 

world.  If  Captain  Jack  with  his  handful  of  braves 
held  the  United  States  army  at  bay  for  half  a  year,  you 
may  well  understand  that  we  miners  met  no  boy's  play 
there  when  these  Indians  were  numerous  and  united. 

But  the  Indian,  as  I  knew  him  there,  is  utterly  extinct. 
About  the  fisheries  of  the  McCloud,  and  along  the  stage 
road  on  the  head  waters  of  the  Sacramento  River,  you 
see  little  houses  now  and  then  not  unlike  our  miners' 
cabins  of  old.  There  are  the  homes  of  the  few  remain 
ing  Indians  of  Northern  California.  There  is  a  little 
garden  and  straggling  patches  of  corn  about  the  door  ; 
two  or  three  miserable  ponies  nibble  about  the  barren 
hills  hard  by,  and  a  withered,  wrinkled  old  squaw  or 
two  grunts  under  a  load  of  wood  or  water,  as  she  steps 
sullen  and  silent  out  of  the  path  to  let  you  pass.  And 
that  is  about  all.  Her  husband,  her  sons,  are  dead  or 
dying  of  disease  in  the  dark,  smoky  cabin  yonder.  He 
accepted  the  inevitable,  and  is  trying  to  be  civilized. 
Alas  !  long  before  that  point  is  reached,  he  will  have 
joined  his  fathers  on  the  other  side  of  darkness. 

I  spent  a  week  at  Soda  Springs,  near  Mount  Shasta, 
in  sight  of  our  old  battle-ground  in  Castle  Rocks,  or 
Castillo  del  Diallo,  as  it  was  then  called.  I  tried  to 
find  some  of  the  men  who  had  fought  in  that  little  bat 
tle.  But  one  white  man  remained.  At  the  time  of  this 
fight,  which  took  place  on  the  15th  day  of  JTme,  1855, 
he  was  married  to  the  daughter  of  a  friendly  chief,  and, 
as  he  was  the  only  alcalde  in  all  that  country,  was  a  sort 
of  military  as  well  as  civil  leader,  and  in  the  battle  was 
conspicuous  both  for  courage  and  good  sense.  He  tried 
to  keep  me  back  and  out  of  danger.  He  told  me  that  I 
was  of  no  account  in  the  fight,  and  only  in  the  way. 
But  when  I  was  shot  down  at  his  side  in  a  charge 
through  the  chaparral,  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  car- 


56  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

ried  me  safely  aside.  He  cared  for  me  afterward,  too, 
till  I  got  well.  How  glad  I  was  to  find  him  still  alive  ! 
When  you  go  up  to  Soda  Springs,  jump  out  of  the  stage 
at  Sweetbrier  Ranch,  only  a  few  miles  this  side  of 
Soda,  and  look  him  up.  Do  you  think  him  an  illiterate 
boor  ?  He  is  of  one  of  the  best  families  in  New  York, 
and  a  scholar. 

A  few  years  ago  one  of  his  wealthy  sisters  came  out 
to  visit  the  old  man  from  the  Eastern  States.  From 
San  Francisco  she  telegraphed  her  approach  and  the 
probable  day  of  her  arrival  at  his  mansion. 

She  came  ;  but  she  did  not  find  him.  The  old  Califor- 
nian  had  long  contemplated  prospecting  the  rugged  sum 
mit  of  an  almost  inaccessible  mountain.  He  felt  that  the 
time  had  come  for  this  work,  as  his  venerable  maiden 
sister,  with  all  her  high  ideas  of  "  family,"  approached. 
He  called  his  spouse  and  his  tawny  children  about  him, 
bade  them  take  up  their  baskets  and  go  high,  very  high 
up  into  the  mountains,  for  acorns.  And  the  gray  old 
Calif ornian  sinched  his  little  mule  till  she  grunted,  tied 
a  pick,  pan,  and  shovel  to  the  saddle,  and  so  pointed  her 
nose  up  the  peak,  and  climbed  as  if  he  was  climbing  for 
the  morning  star.  .  .  . 

I  wonder  how  many  of  us  are  alive  to-day  !  I  saw  the 
old  earthworks  only  last  week.  They  are  almost  levelled 
now.  The  brown  grass  and  weeds  covered  them.  As  I 
climbed  the  hill  to  hunt  for  our  old  fortress,  a  squirrel 
scampered  into  his  hole  under  the  wall,  while  on  the 
highest  rock  a  little  black  lizard  basked  and  blinked  in 
the  sun  and  kept  unchallenged  sentinel.  .  .  . 

I  remember  when  we  came  to  bury  the  dead.  We 
could  not  go  to  town  for  a  preacher,  and  so  one  of  our 
party  had  to  officiate.  That  was  the  saddest  burial  I  ever 
saw.  The  man  broke  down  who  first  began  to  read. 


OLD    CALIFORNIA.  57 

His  voice  trembled  so  lie  could  not  get  on.  Then 
another  man  took  the  Bible  and  tried  to  finish  the  chap 
ter  ;  but  his  voice  trembled  too,  and  pretty  soon  he 
choked  up  and  hid  his  face.  Then  every  man  there 
cried,  I  think. 

Oh,  this  search  for  the  golden  fleece  !  Death  and  ob 
livion  for  so  many  !  Fortune  for  so  few  !  While  writ 
ing  of  wealth  where  gold  is  a  god,  let  me  implore  you  do 
not  much  care  for  it.  ]Sror  would  I  have  you  very  much 
respect  those  who  possess  it. 

In  the  first  place,  the  foundations  of  nearly  all  the 
great  fortunes  of  the  Far  West  have  been  almost  purely 
accidental.  After  that  it  became  merely  a  question  of 
holding  on  to  all  you  could  get.  Of  course,  many  threw 
away  their  opportunities.  But  remember  that  many 
gave  away  all  they  had  to  help  others,  and  are  now  gray 
and  forgotten  in  the  mountains,  while  they  might  have 
been  to-day  at  the  head  of  their  fellows  in  the  city. 

I  know  it  is  hard  to  teach  and  to  preach  against  the 
traditions  and  the  practices  of  all  recorded  time.  But 
while  money  may  remain  to  the  end  "the  root  of  all 
evil,"  I  think  one  may  grow,  if  not  to  despise  it,  cer 
tainly  not  to  worship  it.  And  so  it  is  that  I  wish  to 
sandwich  and  wedge  in  this  fact  right  here.  I  beg  you 
do  not  too  much  admire  the  rich  men  of  this  rich  land, 
where  wealth  may  be  had  by  any  man  who  is  mean 
enough  to  clutch  and  hold  on  tight  to  it. 

I  tell  you  that,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  great  acquired 
wealth  lifts  up  monumental  testimony  to  the  meanness  of 
its  possessor. 

1  knew  two  neighbors,  old  Californians,  who  had 
about  equal  fortunes.  They  were  both  old  settlers,  both 
rich,  and  both  much  respected.  In  that  fearful  year, 
1852,  when  the  dying  and  destitute  immigrants  literally 


58  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

crawled  on  hands  and  knees  over  the  Sierra  trying  to 
reach  the  settlements,  one  of  these  men  drove  all  his 
cattle  up  to  the  mountains,  butchered  them,  and  fed  the 
starving.  He  had  his  Mexicans  pack  all 'the  mules  with 
flour,  which  at  that  time  cost  almost  its  weight  in  gold, 
and  push  on  night  and  day  over  the  mountains  to  meet 
the  strangers  there  and  feed  them,  so  that  they  might 
have  strength  to  reach  his  Ranch,  where  they  could  have 
shelter  and  rest. 

The  other  man,  cold  and  cautious,  saw  his  opportunity, 
and  embraced  it.  He  sat  at  home  and  sold  all  his 
wheat  and  mules  and  meat,  and  with  the  vast  opportuni 
ties  for  turning  money  to  account  in  that  new  country 
soon  became  almost  a  prince  in  fortune. 

But  his  generous  neighbor  died  a  beggar  in  Idaho, 
where  he  had  gone  to  try  to  make  another  fortune.  He 
literally  had  not  money  enough  to  buy  a  shroud  ;  and  as 
he  died  among  strangers,  by  the  roadside,  he  was  buried 
without  even  so  much  as  a  pine  board  coffin. 

I  saw  his  grave  there  only  last  year.  Some  one  had 
set  up  a  rough  granite  stone  at  the  head.  And  that  is 
all.  ]STo  name — not  even  a  letter  or  a  date.  Nothing. 
But  that  boulder  was  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  Almighty 
God,  and  in  the  little  seams  and  dots  and  mossy  scars 
that  cover  it  He  can  read  the  rubric  that  chronicles  the 
secret  virtues  of  this  lone  dead  man  on  the  snowy  moun 
tains  of  Idaho. 

The  children  of  the  "  Prince"  are  in  Paris.  Upheld 
by  his  colossal  wealth,  their  lives  seem  to  embrace  the 
universal  world.  He  is  my  friend.  He  buys  all  my 
books,  and  reads  every  line  I  write.  When  he  comes  to 
this  sketch  he  will  understand  it.  And  he  ought  to  un 
derstand,  too,  that  all  the  respect,  admiration,  and  love 
which  the  new  land  once  gave  these  two  men  gathers 


DAMMING    THE   SACRAMENTO.  59 

around  and  is  buried  beneath  that  moss-grown  granite 
stone  ;  and  that  I  know,  even  with  all  his  show  of  splen 
dor,  that  his  heart  is  as  cold  and  as  empty  as  that  dead 
man's  hand. 


II. 


DAMMING    THE    SACRAMENTO. 

WHILE  we  are  in  these  hills  and  mountains  of  the 
Sierras,  let  me  tell  yon  the  story  of  our  journey  from 
Oregon.  1  will  tell  you  a  true  story  about  a  boy  among 
the  hundred  old  heroes  of  the  epic  age  of  America.  I 
want  you  to  like  the  story.  I  want  you  to  love  the  boy. 

Away  up  under  the  shadows  of  Mount  Shasta,  plung 
ing  down  to  the  south,  foaming,  shouting,  thundering 
down  the  land  as  if  to  shake  the  mountains  loose,  the 
new-born  Sacramento  River  is  as  cold  and  clear  and 
white  as  the  eternal  snows  that  feed  his  thousand  gold- 
bearing  tributaries. 

Long  ago,  in  the  early  days  of  California,  when  all  the 
rivers  there  were  thought  to  be  full  of  gold,  it  was  con 
sidered  a  matter  of  course  that  the  great  Sacramento, 
far  up  at  its  source,  was  also  gold-bearing,  and  that  it 
only  needed  men  and  a  little  labor  to  "  wing-dam"  this 
stream  some  summer,  and  find  a  vein  of  gold  almost  as 
rich  as  the  famous  deposits  of  the  Feather  and  the 
American  rivers,  which  feed  the  Sacramento  and  drain 
the  melting  snows  of  the  Sierras  far  away  to  the  south. 


GO  MEMORIE    AND    11IME. 

And  so  it  was  in  the  spring  of  18 — ,  with  this  purpose 
in  view,  that  a  party  of  strangers  in  San  Francisco 
hastily  pooled  their  fortunes,  consisting  mainly  of  hope 
and  muscle,  and,  ascending  the  Sacramento  River  to 
within  thirty  miles  of  its  source,  settled  down  there  and 
began  to  cut  it  in  two  with  a  wing-dam. 

How,  in  one  short  and  yet  uncompleted  summer,  these 
ten  men  had  managed  to  do  the  amount  of  work  which 
they  had,  it  is  hard  to  say.  Winter  was  not  far  off  at 
the  furthest  in  this  altitude,  but,  then,  how  a  man  work 
ing  for  himself  will  strike  out  with  the  thought  con 
stantly  before  him  that  the  very  next  blow  of  his  pick 
may  mean  to  him  wife,  children,  father,  mother,  home, 
or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  gold  that  wo  aid  pave  the  road 
leading  back  to  these  and  all  else  dear  to  man  ! 

Late  one  evening,  as  the  brawny,  hairy,  half-robed 
miners  still  wrestled  with  the  boulders  down  in  the  bed 
of  the  river,  which  as  yet  had  yielded  no  sign  of  its 
secrets,  a  pale,  slim  boy  stood  on  the  bank  and  inquired, 
in  a  helpless  way  and  with  a  weak,  tired  voice,  if  they 
did  not  want  "  to  hire  help." 

The  men  stopped,  looked  up,  then  at  each  other,  then 
at  the  boy  above  them  on  the  bank  ;  and  then  they 
roared  with  laughter. 

"  Hire  help  !  Look  here,  are  you  the  help  ?"  howled 
the  strongest  of  them,  called  "  Samson." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Again  the  ragged  men  leaned  on  their  picks  and 
shovels,  lifted  up  their  heads,  and  roared. 

"  Say,  are  you  an  orphan?"  laughed  "  Colonel 
Lasses,"  turning  a  quid.  "  We're  all  orphans  here,  and 
a  long  ways  from  home.  Are  you  an  orphan  and  a  long 
ways  from  home  ?" 


DAMMING    THE    SACRAMENTO.  01 

"No,  sir,"  piped  the  tired  boy,  "  I  am  not  an 
orphan  ;  but  I  am  a  long  ways  from  home." 

''  Well,  you  better  start  home,  then.  It  will  be  dark 
by  the  time  you  get  there,  I  guess.  From  the  Flat,  eh  ?" 

"  From  tiie  Flat,  sir  ?     Where  is  that  ?" 

"  Why,  Portuguese  Flat,"  chimed  in  a  tall  fellow, 
with  a  touch  of  gentleness  in  his  voice.  "  It's  four 
miles  down,  the  only  mining  camp  on  this  end  of  the 
river.  Where  did  you  come  from,  my  kid,  that  you 
didn't  know  that,  eh?" 

"  Why,  sir,  I  came  from  the  other  way — down  from 
Oregon.  There's  been  a  battle  away  up  the  river.  I 
was  hit,  you  see,  and  am  only  now  come  down. " 

Some  of  the  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  others 
shook  their  heads.  But  the  very  tall  and  ragged  one, 
who  was  called  "  Nut  Crackers,"  leaned  soberly  aside  on 
liis  pick. 

At  last  one  of  the  men,  a  sprightly,  handsome  young 
fellow  called  Timothy,  threw  dotvn  his  long-handled 
shovel  and,  coming  up  out  of  the  mine,  said  : 

"  Well,  my  kid,  you  may  not  be  an  orphan,  but 
you're  a  mighty  long  ways  from  home  ;  about  a  thou 
sand  miles,  I  guess.  And  as  you  can't  get  back  there 
to-night,  you'd  better  bunk  with  us— eh,  boys  ?" 

"  Bet  your  boots  !''  cheerily  cried  Nut  Crackers  at 
his  side,  as  he  twirled  a  finger  playfully  through  the 
boy's  yellow  hair. 

A  heavy-booted,  half-bear  creature,  that  came  crawl 
ing  out  of  the  mine  after  his  younger  partners,  grunted 
out  a  qualified  assent,  and  the  party  went  slowly  string 
ing  out  toward  the  brush  shanty  of  the  company,  which 
stood  a  little  way  back  from  the  foaming  river.  Others 
followed,  for  the  sun  was  down  and  it  was  time  to 
"knock  off." 


62  MKMORIE    AND    RIME. 

The  boy  was  weary  and  altogether  wretched.  He  was 
tall  and  pale  and  thin,  like  a  weed  that  has  grown  in 
shadow,  and  was  not  likely  to  be  an  addition  to  the 
working-force  of  the  mine  ;  but  he  was  reserved  and  re 
spectful,  and  so  eager  to  help  about  the  camp  in  bringing 
wood  and  water,  and  so  careful  not  to  be  in  the  way, 
that  he  was  tolerated  until  after  the  tired  men  had  had 
their  suppers.  And  then  when  they  had  filled  their 
pipes,  and  had  thrown  themselves  about  the  roaring  and 
sweet-smelling  fire  of  yew  and  juniper,  he  was  made  to 
feel  quite  at  home,  and  soon  fell  so  soundly  asleep  by  the 
fire  that  he  knew  nothing  more  till  the  sun  came  down 
over  the  mountains,  next  morning,  and  looked  him  full 
in  the  face  and  wakened  him. 

It  was  Nut  Crackers's  "  cook-week,"  and  he  had  left 
a  tin  cupful  of  coifee  hot  by  the  fire,  where  the  boy 
still  lay.  With  an  air  of  desperation,  he  was  now  down 
011  his  knees,  with  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  before  a  tubful 
of  boiling  hot  water  and  obstinately  greasy  tin  plates. 
He  made  an  experimental  dive  with  his  big  fist  into  the 
boiling  water,  and  then  suddenly  leaped  up,  and  hopping 
high  on  his  naked  heels,  launched  into  a  series  of  inco 
herent  oaths,  which  was  timidly  interrupted  by  the  boy. 

"  Let  me  wash  'em  for  you,  please." 

<•  You  ?"  said  Nut  Crackers,  savagely,  in  an  effort  to 
vent  some  of  his  irritation  on  the  new-comer. 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  I  wash  my  hands." 

"  You'd  better  drink  your  coffee,  and  get  some  color 
in  your  face  first." 

"  I  will.  But,  sir,  I  want  to  wash  the  dishes  for  you. 
I  know  how.  I  always  washed  the  dishes  for  mother  at 
home  when  she  was  sick." 

Nut  Crackers  stopped  swearing.  Pretty  soon  he  came 
up  to  the  boy,  who  was  washing  his  hands  and  face  in 


DAMMING    THE    SACRAMEXTO.  fi3 

the  little  stream  that  slid  through  the  camp,  and,  snap 
ping  his  fingers,  which  were  as  red  as  boiled  crawfish, 
said  : 

"  Kid,  have  you  got  a  mother  and  do  you —  ?  But 
bah  !  Yes,  wash  'em.  It's  not  a  man's  place  to  wash 
dishes.  Wash  'em  and  clean  up  about  camp.  Got  no 
money  to  pay  you  ;  we're  all  on  the  verge.  But  you 
clean  up  about  here,  and  stay  'round  for  grub  ;  time 
enough  to  get  down  to  the  Flat  after  beans." 

And  with  this  he  unrolled  his  sleeves  and  hobbled  off 
down  to  the  mine,  leaving  the  boy  in  charge  of  the  few 
blankets,  brush-beds,  camp-kettles,  pans,  and  old  boots 
which  made  up  the  tangible  fortune  of  the  u  Sacramento 
Wing-dam  Company." 

When  the  ten  tired  men  came  up  to  dinner  that  day, 
they  found  such  a  change  for  the  better  that  they  per 
suaded  the  boy  to  stay.  True,  they  had  no  money,  even 
for  themselves  ;  but  when  they  "  struck  it" — and  strike 
it  they  must  the  very  next  week — he  should  be  paid,  and 
paid  well.  And  with  this  understanding  they  w^ent  back 
to  their  work  that  afternoon,  leaving  behind  them  a  boy 
with  a  lighter  heart  than  he  had  borne  for  half  a  year. 

The  men  worked  like  beavers  now.  The  summer  had 
slipped  away,  and  winter  had  taken  possession  of  the 
summits  of  the  mountains  and  set  them  with  snowy  cas 
tles.  The  river  was  rising  every  day,  inch  by  inch. 
They  must  cut  quite  across  the  river-bed  and  strike  the 
vein  before  the  river  broke  over  the  wing-dam,  or  all 
their  labor  would  be  lost.  They  had  already,  even  in 
midsummer,  pierced  the  centre  of  the  river-bed,  and 
thrown  the  stormy  stream  behind  them.  They  wTere 
now  on  the  farther  side,  and  were  cutting  straight  for  the 
bed-rock  bank  that  cropped  out  not  twenty  feet  away. 
They  had  begun  with  the  bed-rock  bank  on  the  other 


MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 


side,  and  had  followed  the  bed-rock  across  the  entire  bed 
of  the  river.  The  gold  must  lie  somewhere  ahead  of 
them  —  somewhere  within  the  next  twenty  feet.  It  was 
now  only  a  question  of  days,  of  hours.  This,  be  it  re 
membered,  was  in  the  early  days,  when  all  men  still  ob 
stinately  believed  that  gold  must  lie  in  veins  and  strata. 

How  full  of  hope,  of  heart,  were  these  men  who  had 
been  shut  up  there  in  a  gaping  crevice  of  the  earth  all 
summer  !  Not  one  doubted  that  they  would  strike  it— 
a  little  yellow  vein  deep  in  the  bed  of  this  stormy  river, 
where  the  finger  of  God  had  placed  it  in  the  dawn  of 
creation.  Banks  might  fail,  ships  founder  at  sea,  but 
this  gold—  it  was  there  !  It  had  to  le  there  !  A  little 
yellow  river  of  virgin  gold  ! 

These  ten  men  did  the  work  of  forty.  They  could 
hardly  wait  for  dawn,  and  they  worked  at  night  while 
the  stars  stood  sentinel  at  the  castles  of  snow  above 
them.  They  scarcely  ate  their  food,  they  were  so  eager. 
However,  there  was  but  little  to  eat.  They  did  not 
wear  much  clothing,  although  winter  was  in  the  air. 
One  man  had  not  even  the  fragments  of  sleeves  to  his 
only  remaining  shirt.  This  was  the  man  called  Samson. 
He  had  arms  like  a  giant,  and  would  show  die  knots  of 
muscle  on  his  arms  by  the  fire-light,  and  boast  of  his 
strength  by  the  hour.  He  had  a  theory  that  the  arms 
should  always  be  entirely  naked.  He  said  he  had  torn 
off  and  thrown  away  his  splendid  sleeves  in  order  to  give 
the  muscles  of  his  arms  full  play,  and  he  advised  all  the 
boys  to  do  the  same.  But  it  so  happened  that  one 
night,  after  one  of  these  boastful  exhibitions,  having  un 
dertaken  to  dry  the  socks  of  these  giants  on  a  pole  by 
the  fire  as  they  slept,  the  boy  discovered  that  Samson 
had  torn  off  the  covering  of  his  arms  in  order  that  he 
might  protect  his  feet. 


DAMMING   THE   SACRAMENTO.  65 

It  is  to  be  recorded  that  the  early  California!!  was 
particularly  partial  to  Biblical  names.  There  was  one  of 
this  party  called  Joseph.  "  We  calls  him  Joseph 
because  one  day  he  fell  in  the  pit  ;  and  then,  he's  the 
bashfullest  'un  in  the  camp,"  said  Lazarus,  a  bony,  pock 
marked,  thoughtful  man,  aside  to  the  boy. 

One  of  this  new  company  was  called  Colonel  Lasses. 
Colonel  Lasses  was  from  the  South,  and  chewed  tobacco. 
Perhaps  nothing  pleased  the  colonel  better  than  firing 
tobacco  juice  at  the  thousand  little  lizards  that  danced 
up  and  down  the  shining  white  boulders  that  strewed  the 
bar.  I  forgot  to  say  that  Colonel  Lasses  was  not  his 
name.  Lazarus,  in  a  burst  of  confidence  toward  the  boy, 
had  informed  him  that  they  at  first  had  called  the  col 
onel  "  Molasses  Jug" — not  because  he  was  sweet,  but 
because  he  looked  it.  But  they  had  found  it  a  little 
too  long,  and  finally  polished  it  down  to  "  Lasses." 

There  now  remained  only  a  few  feet  between  the  en 
ergetic  miners  and  the  abrupt  bed-rock  wall  before 
them.  Yet  no  man  for  a  moment  entertained  a  shadow 
of  a  doubt  that  his  fortune  lay  there,  in  virgin  gold.  Or 
if  any  man  for  an  instant  had  a  doubt,  he  kept  it  to 
himself.  True,  only  a  few  feet  remained.  But  even  a 
few  inches  would  be  enough  to  hide  a  vein  of  incalcula 
ble  wealth.  Who  should  come  to  doubt,  after  all  they 
had  endured  and  dared  ?  K"o,  there  was  no  possible 
show  for  Fortune  to  escape  them.  The  gold  must  be 
there.  For  was  not  winter  nipping  at  their  heels  ?  Was 
not  the  last  bit  of  rusty  old  bacon  in  the  camp-kettle 
with  the  last  handful  of  Chili  beans  ?  They  had  not  tasted 
bread  since  the  Sunday  before,  the  last  time  they  had  all 
gone  down  to  the  Flat,  and  then  they  had  pawned  the  last 
six-shooter  of  the  crowd  for  a  last  square  meal.  Bread  ! 
Their  bread  was  hope.  And  of  that  they  had  plenty. 


66  MEMOBIE   ASTD    RIME. 

But  now  the  boy  fell  ill — suddenly  and  seriously  ill. 
He  had  never  quite  pulled  up,  and  now,  all  at  once,  just 
as  they  were  about  to  strike  it,  just  on  the  eve  of  the 
next  to  the  last  day,  he  broke  quite  down,  and  lay  half- 
delirious  with  a  fever,  as  the  men  came  up  from  the 
mine  by.  moonlight  and  quietly  gathered  about  him. 
They  had  somehow  learned  to  love  him  in  spite  of 
themselves. 

He  was  indeed  very  ill.  But  what  could  they  do  ? 
There  was  no  doctor  at  the  Flat.  There  was  not  even  a 
drug-store.  And  if  there  had  been,  what  then  ?  Every 
pistol,  rifle,  knife,  every  available  article,  had  been 
pawned — "  put  up,"  as  they  called  it — to  carry  on  the 
work. 

"  Boys,"  at  last  cried  Timothy,  the  impulsive  young 
fellow  who  had  first  welcomed  him,  ."  boys,  I  have  an 
idea  ;  yes,  boys,  I  have.  Let's  make  the  kid  a  pard- 
ner  !" 

"  J'ist  as  we're  strikin'  it  ?"  murmured  a  voice  with  a 
Southern  accent,  out  on  the  edge  of  the  dark.  Then 
after  a  pause,  long  enough  to  turn  a  quid,  the  voice  an 
swered  itself,  "Wa-al,  .yes,  Timothy." 

Nut  Crackers  was  not  a  talker.  His  lips  quivered  a 
little,  and  he  went  out  aside  in  the  dark. 

There  was  a  deep  silence.  The  proposition  seemed 
absurd  to  nearly  every  man  there.  The  river  surged  on, 
now  louder,  now  softer  ;  the  fire  leaped  and  licked  its 
red  tongue,  as  if  about  to  break  the  stillness,  and  that 
was  all.  But  Timothy  was  in  dead  earnest,  and  hearing 
a  voice  out  in  the  dark  breaking  the  awkward  silence 
never  so  faintly,  was  on  his  feet. 

"  He  may  die,  boys.     He  may  not  live  till  morning." 

"  In  that  case — in  that  case,  I  guess  we  can  do  it," 
chipped  in  the  man  from  Maine. 


DAMMING    THE    SACRAMENTO. 


"  Look  here,  boys,  if  we  strike  it,  there  is  enough  for 
us  all.  And  if  —if—  '  here  Timothy's  two  forefingers 
hooked  together  angrily,  as  if  they  were  ready  to  stran 
gle  each  other  at  the  thought  —  "  if  we  don't  strike  it  _  " 

Several  of  the  men  were  on  their  feet  and  glaring  at 
each  other.  The  speaker  hastened  on  : 

"  But  of  course  we  will.  Boys,  it's  there.  Of  course 
it's  there.  It's  got  to  be  there.  I  never  doubted  it, 
boys.  But  I  am  a  bit  superstitious.  And  as  I  sat  there 
looking  in  that  boy's  face,  I  says  to  myself,  says  I,  boys, 
God  wouldn't,  couldn't,  disappoint  that  face.  Now,  if 
he  was  in  with  us,  boys,  we  couldn't  possibly  miss  it 
to-morrow." 

Ko  man  answered,  but  several  crossed  over  to  the 
other  side  of  the  fire  to  the  boy,  and  Lazarus  put  out  his 
hand  to  the  sufferer,  and  said  tenderly,  as  he  took  up  the 
thin  and  helpless  fingers  : 

''  Shake,  pardner,  shake.     You're  one  of  us  now.'' 
„     Even  the  sour  and  silent  man  from  Maine  came  up  and 
shook  the  boy's  hand  ;  then,   as  he  shuffled  off  to  his 
own  side  of  the  fire,  he  said,  half  to  himself  : 

£  Well,  if  we  do  miss  it  neow,  there's  one  good  deed 
we  git  credit  for,  anyheow." 

"Key-rect,  boys,"  said  the  laconic  colonel,  as  he 
gave  the  hand  of  fellowship,  and  walked  off,  feeling 
somehow  broader  in  the  chest  and  bigger  about  the  heart 
than  he  had  for  a  year.  "But  if  God  A  'mighty  goes 
back  on  us  now  after  what  we've  done  —  wa-al,  I'll 
jist—  But  the  last  of  this  speech  was  drowned  in  the 
roar  of  the  Sacramento  Eiver  as  it  rolled  away  in  the 
darkness  with  its  mighty  secret  that,  on  the  morrow, 
should  be  torn  from  its  very  heart. 

la  the  lull  which  followed,  a  voice  was  heard  out  in 
the  dark  in  the  direction  toward  which  Nut  Crackers  had 


08  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

gone,  stumbling  and  twisting  his  long,  ungainly  legs 
over  the  great  boulders.  And  as  one  of  the  men  spoke 
to  the  kid  by  the  fire  of  to-morrow,  of  the  gold,  his 
going  home,  the  wife  waiting  at  the  door  three  thousand 
miles  away,  the  old  mother  waiting  with  one  foot  in  the 
grave,  who  could  not  go  to  rest  till  she  said  good-by  to 
her  boy,  the  moon  seemed  to  come  down  out  of  heaven 
to  see  and  the  river  to  stop  and  listen. 

This  was  the  eve  of  battle.  What  victory  or  defeat 
for  to-morrow  !  N~o  coward  had  as  yet  ever  set  his  face 
for  the  Sierras.  Each  man  here  was  a  hero.  And  every 
one  of  these  worn-out  fellows  had  a  heart  like  a  girl. 
Even  the  laconic  colonel  hooked  his  knuckles  in  his  eyes 
and,  turning  away  so  as  not  to  be  seen,  muttered  : 

"  Blast  me,  if  ISTut  Crackers  ain't  out  there  a-prayin'." 
As  the  man  came  back  out  of  the  dark,  a  song  burst 
out  in  the  mountains  by  the  camp-fire,  such  as  the  Sier 
ras  had  never  heard  before  and  will  never  hear  again. 
It  was  not  the  words,  not  the  air,  not  the  singular  occa* 
sion.  But  it  was  the  heart,  the  hope — the  extreme  of 
hope  which  is  despair.  It  was  the  old  and  simple  song, 
lined  by  the  man  from  Maine  : 

"  From  Greenland's  icy  meount'ins  ; 

From  Injy's  coral  stran'  ; 
Where  Afric's  sunny  feount'ins 
Koll  down  their  golden  san'." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  "  golden  sand"  that  had  so  long  filled 
their  souls,  sleeping  and  waking  ;  maybe  it  was  the 
"  icy  mountains"  about  them  that  invoked  the  song. 
But  whatever  it  was,  the  hymn  broke  out  and  rolled  on 
to  full  completion  as  strong  and  as  resolute  as  the  river 
it  outsung.  The  man  from  Maine  sang  loudest  of  all  ; 
it  seemed  that  the  power  of  the  mountain  pines  was  in 
his  voice. 


DAMMING   THE   SACRAMENTO.  G9 

And  the  boys  no  longer  looked  down  or  turned  aside 
now.  They  shook  hands  in  hearty  mountain  fashion, 
and  sang  and  sang  together  again.  It  seemed  that  they 
had  never  become  acquainted  through  all  that  summer 
before. 

When  they  had  finished  the  hymn  for  the  second 
time,  the  man  from  Maine  grasped  the  hand  of  Lazarus 
and  Nut  Crackers,  and  cried  out  : 

"  Once  more,  boys  !  Once  more  !  And,  boys,  the 
p'int  and  main  thing  in  the  pray  in'  and  the  singin'  is 
that  the  kid  gits  well,  of  course.  But,  boys,  chip  in  a 
sort  o'  side  prayer  for  the  mine.  Now,  all  together  : 

"  'From  Greenland's  icy  ineo-u-n-t'ms,' — 

Yes,  hoys,  heave  it  in  for  the  mine,  on  the  sly,  like. 
Keep  her  up,  now  ! 

"  '  From  Injy's  coral  str-a-n', 
Where  Afric's  sunny  feo-u-n-t'ins 
Roll  down  their  golden  s-a-nV 

Aye,  boys,  weather  eye  on  the  mine  ;  don't  cost  a  cent 
more,  you  know,  to  come  right  out  flat-footed  for  the 
mine,  so  that  she  can't  miss  in  the  inornin'  under  no 
possible  sarcumstances. " 

"The  song  was  finished,  and  with  light  hearts  they  laid 
down  at  midnight — soldiers  in  the  trenches,  waiting  for 
the  dawn. 

The  boy  had  heard  and  understood  it  all.  He  was  not 
so  ill  now.  Care,  the  thought  of  those  at  home,  the 
hope  deferred— these  things  had  made  the  heart  sick 
and  the  body  sick.  But  now  he  should  have  gold  ! 
Gold  !  Gold  !  Not  for  himself  had  he  come  to  the 
Sierras.  But  there  was  a  mother  who  had  been  tenderly 
reared,  there  was  a  father  who  had  been  a  scholar  in  his 
day,  then  the  little  ones— all  these  had  been  pitched 


70  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

headlong  into  the  wilderness,  and  were  utterly  out  of 
place.  How  he  pictured  the  return — the  escape  from 
the  wilderness  !  It  made  the  blood  leap  in  his  heart, 
and  after  a  night  of  sleep  he  felt  a  new  flush  of  strength 
with  the  first  gray  of  dawn,  when  the  men  were  on 
their  knees  before  Fortune  in  the  mine. 

No  man  had  tasted  food.  No  man  thought  of  that. 
And  well  enough,  too.  No  !  Their  first  meal  should  be 
down  at  the  Flat.  They  would  all  take  back  their  pis 
tols,  rifles,  rings,  and  knives,  and  pay  the  men  with  gold 
ravished  from  the  unwilling  river. 

The  boy  sat  on  the  bank,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  just 
above  the  knot  of  eager,  breathless  men.  The  dull, 
blunt  pickaxes  were  driven  to  the  eyes  at  every  blow. 
The  worn-out  shovels  sent  the  gravel  ringing  to  the  rear. 
Only  one  foot  now  remained  ! 

Was  the  gold  hidden  in  the  last  little  crevice  in  the 
river  ?  Where  was  it  ?  It  was  there  !  It  must  be 
there  !  But  where  ? 

At  last  the  pickaxe  struck  through.  The  gravel 
shelved  off  and  fell  down  with  a  dull  thud,  and  a  pan 
was  washed  in  a  trice. 

Not  a  color  ! 

And  not  an  oath  was  heard  !  Draw  a  red  line  right 
here,  and  remember  it.  Not  a.  single  oath  was  heard. 
And  these  men  were  neither  unskilled  nor  out  of  prac 
tice  in  that  line. 

Quietly  and  mechanically  the  boy  went  back  and 
gathered  up  the  few  old  blankets  that  would  bear  trans 
portation.  Joseph  went  up  the  river  a  little  ways, 
opened  the  floodgates,  and  as  the  last  man  climbed  out 
of  the  pit,  leaving  the  battered  tools  behind  him,  the 
waters  came  booming  over  like  a  mighty  inflowing  tide. 


DAMMING    THE    SACRAMENTO,  71 

The  huge  and  weary  old  wheel  ceased  to  creak,  and  the 
Sacramento  swept  on  in  its  old  swift  fashion. 

The  group  of  men  was  not  so  depressed,  not  so  miser 
able,  after  all,  as  you  might  think,  as  they  hobbled  back 
to  camp  and  took  up  their  blankets.  True,  they  turned 
their  heads  for  a  last  look  as  they  climbed  the  hill  away 
from  the  bar,  but  it  was  noticeable  that  they  still  did 
not  swear.  The  man  from  Maine  muttered  something 
about  yet  making  the  river  pay  by  rafting  lumber  down 
it,  but  that  was  all. 

The  boy's  legs  failed  him  at  the  first  hill,  and  Xut 
Crackers  took  him  upon  his  shoulders.  Soon  another 
took  him,  arid  so  in  a  sort  of  glorious  rivalry  these  van 
quished  Trojans  reached  Portuguese  Flat.  And  as,  tired 
and  heartless,  they  stumbled  into  the  town,  they  lustily 
sang  a  song  with  these  words  for  the  chorus  : 

"  And  we  dammed  the  Sacramento 
As  it  never  was  dammed  before." 

Joseph  had  the  boy  on  his  shoulders,  while  Nut  Crackers 
followed  close  behind  ;  and  in  this  order  they  entered 
the  only  hotel,  with  the  others  stringing  in  after  them. 

"  Barkeep',"  began  Joseph,  as  he  settled  the  load  on 
his  shoulders,  "  we  wants  to  pawn  this  'ere  boy.  Yes, 
we  do.  We  wants  to  pawn  this  'ere  boy  for  one  squar' 
meal  to  git  away  on,  and  we'll  come  back  in  the  spring 
and  redeem  him.  Yes,  we  will.  If  we  don't,  barkeep', 
may  we  never  strike  it  —  here,  or  up  yonder." 

And  what  a  dinner  it  was  ! 

But  Joseph,  Timothy,  Samson,  Lazarus,  gentle  ]S~ut 
Crackers,  where  are  you  now  ?  And  what  has  befallen 
you,  brave  soldiers  of  fortune  ?  Are  you  climbing  the 
mountains  still  ?  Or  have  you  left  them  forever  and 
become  merchant  princes,  railroa^Lrkujgs,  and  leaders  of 


UNIVERSITY 


72  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

your  fellow-men  ?  If  there  is  one  of  you  living  any 
where,  in  whatever  circumstances,  answer  one  who 
writes  these  lines  and  who  loves  you  well  ;  for  he  it  was 
you  pawned  for  your  dinner  when  you  dammed  the 
Sacramento. 


in. 

AN    ELK    HUNT    IN    THE    SIERRAS. 

WHEN  it  was  discovered  that  gold  did  not  exist  in  great 
paying  quantities  on  the  head-waters  of  the  Sacramento 
River,  the  thousands  there  who  had  overrun  the  land  and 
conquered  the  Indians  melted  away.  But  I  had  been 
kindly  treated  by  the  Indians,  partly  perhaps  because  I 
was  the  only  white  boy  in  the  country  at  that  time,  and 
partly  maybe  because  I  had  been  badly  wounded  in  a 
battle  against  them,  and  was  still  weak  and  helpless  after 
a  sort  of  peace  was  patched  up  ;  and  so  I  went  freely 
among  them.  The  old  chief's  family  was  strangely  kind 
to  me.  He  had  a  very  beautiful  daughter.  But  I  needed 
the  services  of  a  surgeon,  and  as  the  summer  passed  I  set 
out  for  the  settlements,  a  hundred  miles  down  the  Sacra 
mento  River  to  the  south. 

Early  in  the  fall  of  1855  I  reached  Shasta  City,  in  my 
slow  journey  from  Soda  Springs,  after  the  battle  of 
Castle  Rocks,  and  there  had  the  services  of  an  Italian 
doctor,  who  quite  healed  my  wounds  and  set  me  once 
more  on  my  feet.  We  became  greatly  attached,  and  this 


AX    ELK   HUNT   IN   THE   SIKRRAS.  <3 

new  friend  of  the  Old  World  seemed  resolved  to  be  my 
friend  indeed.  He  had  a  cabin  and  a  mining  claim  near 
Shasta  City,  and  was  counted  rich  in  gold  dust.  In  this 
cabin  he  established  me,  set  me  to  reading  all  sorts  of 
books,  and  began  to  teach  me  Italian  and  Spanish  But 
my  heart  was  not  always  in  that  cabin  or  with  my  books. 
Often  and  often  I  climbed  the  highest  mountain  looking 
away  toward  Mount  Shasta  to  the  north.  Somebody  was 
waiting  up  there,  I  knew.  I  knew  that  two  dark  eyes  were 
peering  through  the  dense  wood  toward  the  south  ;  two 
soft  brown  hands  parting  the  green  foliage,  looking  out 
the  way  that  I  should  come,  certain  that  I  would  come 
at  last.  My  friend  and  benefactor  had  furnished  me 
with  a  fine  horse  and  the  finest  saddle  that  the  place 
could  furnish  ;  besides,  he  had  armed  me  like  a  brigand, 
clad  me  in  a  rich,  wild  fashion,  and  filled  my  purse  with 
gold  dust.  Great  plans  he  had  for  our  future — going  to 
the  Old  World  and  resting  all  the  years  in  Italy.  I  was 
not  strong  enough  or  yet  quite  content  enough  to  work 
much,  and  so  was  often  absent,  riding,  dreaming,  plan 
ning  how  to  get  back  to  the  north  and  not  hurt  the  kind 
heart  of  my  new  friend.  One  night  when  I  was  absent 
thus  he  and  his  partner  were  both  murdered  in  their 
cabin  and  robbed  of  their  gold.  When  I  returned  the 
cabin  was  cold  and  empty. 

When  the  spring  came  tripping  by  from  the  south 
over  the  chaparral  hills  of  Shasta,  leaving  flowers  in 
every  footprint  as  she  passed,  I  set  my  face  for  Mount 
Shasta,  the  lightest-hearted  lad  that  ever  mounted  horse. 
A  hard  clay's  ride  brought  me  to  Portuguese  Flat,  the 
last  new  mining  camp  and  the  nearest  town  to  my  be 
loved  Mount  Shasta.  Here  I  found  my  former  partner 
in  the  Soda  Springs  property,  Mountain  Joe,  and  to 
gether  we  went  up  to  Mount  Shasta. 


74  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

The  Indian  chief,  Blackboard,  gave  me  a  beautiful 
little  valley,  then  known  as  Now-ow-wa,  but  now  called 
by  the  euphonious  (?)  name  of  Squaw  Yalley,  and  I  built 
a  cabin  there.  As  the  winter  settled  down  and  the  snow 
fell  deep  and  fast,  however,  the  Indians  all  retreated 
down  from  out  the  spurs  of  Mount  Shasta  and  took 
refuge  on  the  banks  of  the  McCloud  River.  I  nailed  up 
my  cabin,  and  on  snowshoes  recrossed  the  fifteen  miles  of 
steep  and  stupendous  mountains,  and  got  down  to  winter 
at  my  old  home,  Soda  Springs.  But  a  new  Yankee 
partner  had  got  his  grasp  about  the  throat  of  things  there, 
and  instead  of  pitching  him  out  into  the  snow,  I  deter 
mined  to  give  it  all  up  and  set  my  face  where  I  left  my 
heart,  once  more,  finally  and  forever,  with  the  Indians. 
Loaded  down  with  arms  and  ammunition,  one  clear, 
frosty  morning  in  December  I  climbed  up  the  spur  of 
Mount  Shasta,  which  lay  between  me  and  my  little  valley 
of  snow,  and  left  the  last  vestige  of  civilization  behind 
me.  It  was  steep,  hard  climbing.  Sometimes  I  would 
sink  into  the  snow  to  my  waist.  Sometimes  the  snow 
would  slide  down  the  mountain  and  bear  me  back,  half 
buried,  to  the  place  I  had  started  from  half  an  hour  be 
fore.  A  marvel  that  I  kept  on.  But  there*was  hatred 
behind,  there  was  love  before — elements  that  have  built 
cities  and  founded  empires.  As  the  setting  sun  gilded 
the  snowy  pines  with  gold  I  stood  on  the  lofty  summit, 
looking  down  into  my  unpeopled  world  of  snow. 

An  hour  of  glorious  gliding,  darting,  shooting  on  my 
snowshoes,  and  I  stood  on  the  steep  bluff  that  girt  above 
and  about  my  little  valley.  A  great,  strange  light,  like 
silver,  enveloped  the  land.  Across  the  valley,  on  the 
brow  of  the  mountain  beyond,  the  curved  moon,  new 
and  white  and  bright,  gleamed  before  me  like  a  drawn 
cimeter  to  drive  me  back.  Down  in  the  valley  under 


AX    ELK    HUNT    IX    THE    SIERRAS.  15 

me  busy  little  foxes  moved  and  shuttle-cocked  across  the 
level  sea  of  snow.  But  I  heard  no  sound  nor  saw  any 
other  sign  of  life.  The  solitude,  the  desolation,  the 
silence,  was  so  vast,  so  actual,  that  I  could  feel  it — hear 
it.  A  strange  terror  came  upon  me  there.  And  oh,  I 
wished — how  devoutly  I  wished  I  never  shall  forget — 
that  1  had  not  ventured  on  this  mad  enterprise.  But  I 
had  burned  my  ship.  It  had  been  as  impossible  for  me 
to  return,  tired,  hungry,  heartsick  as  I  then  was,  as  it 
had  been  for  me  to  lay  hold  of  the  bright  cold  horns  of 
the  moon  before  me.  With  a  sigh  I  tightened  my  belt, 
took  up  my  rifle,  which  I  had  leaned  against  a  pine,  and 
once  more  shot  ahead.  Breaking  open  my  cabin  door,  I 
took  off  my  snowshoes  and  crept  down  the  steep  wall  of 
snow,  and  soon  had  a  roaring  fire  from  the  sweet-smell 
ing  pine  wood  that  lay  heaped  in  cords  against  the 
walls.  Seven  days  I  rested  there,  as  lone  as  the  moon 
in  the  cold  blue  above.  Queer  days  !  Queer  thoughts  I 
had  there  then.  Those  days  left  their  impression  clearly, 
as  strange  creatures  of  another  age  had  left  their  foot 
prints  in  the  plastic  clay  that  has  become  now  solid  stone. 
When  the  mind  is  so  void,  queer  thoughts  get  into  one's 
head  ;  and  they  come  and  establish  themselves  and 
stay.  I  had  some  books,  and  read  them  all  through. 
Here  I  first  began  to  write. 

On  the  eighth  day  my  door  was  darkened,  and  I  sprang 
up  from  my  work,  rifle  in  hand.  Two  Indians,  brave, 
handsome  young  fellows,  one  my  best  and  dearest  friend 
in  all  the  world,  stood  before  me.  And  sad  tales  they 
told  me  that  night  as  I  feasted  them  around  my  great 
fireplace.  The  tribe  was  starving  over  on  the  McCloud  ! 
The  gold-diggers  had  so  muddied  and  soiled  the  waters 
the  season  before  that  the  annual  run  of  salmon  had 
failed,  the  Indians  had  for  the  first  time  in  centuries  no 


73  MEMORIE    AKD    RIME. 

stores  of  dried  salmon,  and  they  were  starving  to  death 
by  hundreds.  And  what  was  still  more  alarming,  for  it 
meant  the  ultimate  destruction  of  all  the  Indians  con 
cerned,  I  was  told  that  the  natives  of  Pit  River  Valley 
had  resolved  to  massacre  all  the  settlers  there.  After  a 
day's  rest  these  two  Indians,  loaded  with  flour  for  the 
famishing  tribe,  set  out  to  return.  Again  I  was  left 
alone,  this  time  for  nearly  three  weeks.  The  Indians 
returned  with  other  young  men  to  carry  flour  back  to 
the  famishing,  while  we  who  were  strong  and  rested  pre 
pared  for  a  grand  hunt  for  a  great  band  of  elk  which  we 
knew  wintered  near  the  warm  springs,  high  up  on  the 
wooded  slopes  of  Mount  Shasta.  Perhaps  I  might  men 
tion  here  that  this  cabin  full  of  provisions  had  remained 
untouched  all  the  time  of  my  absence.  I  will  say  further 
that  I  believe  the  last  Indian  would  have  starved  to  death 
rather  than  have  touched  one  crumb  of  bread  with 
out  my  permission.  These  Indians  had  never  yet  come 
in  contact  with  any  white  man  but  myself.  Such  hon 
esty  I  never  knew  as  I  found  here.  As  for  their  valor 
and  prowess,  I  can  only  point  you  to  the  Modoc  battle 
fields,  where  the  whole  United  States  Army  \vas  held  at 
bay  so  long  nearly  twenty  years  after,  and  pass  on. 

After  great  preparation,  we  struck  out  steeply  up  the 
mountain,  and  for  three  days  wallowed  through  the  snow 
in  the  dense,  dark  woods,  when  we  struck  the  great  elk 
trail.  A  single  trail  it  was,  and  looked  as  if  a  saw-log 
had  been-  drawn  repeatedly  through  the  snow.  The 
bottom  and  sides  of  tin's  trail  were  as  hard  and  smooth  as 
ice.  Perhaps  a  thousand  elk  had  passed  here.  They 
had  been  breaking  from  one  thicket  of  maple  and  other 
kinds  of  brush  which  they  feed  upon  at  such  times,  and 
we  knew  they  could  not  have  gone  far  through  this 
snow,  which  reached  above  their  backs.  We  hung  up 


AN    ELK    HUNT   IN   THE   SIERRAS.  77 

our  snowslioes  now,  and,  looking  to  our  arms,  shot  ahead 
full  of  delightful  anticipation.  At  last,  climbing  a  little 
hill,  with  clouds  of  steam  rising  from  the  warm  springs 
of  that  region,  we  looked  down  into  a  little  valley  of 
thick  undergrowth,  and  there  calmly  rested  the  vast  herd 
of  elk.  I  peered  through  the  brush  into  the  large,  clear 
eyes  of  a  great  stag  with  a  head  of  horns  like  a  rocking- 
chair.  He  was  chewing  his  cud,  and  was  not  at  all  dis 
concerted.  It  is  possible  we  were  not  yet  discovered. 
More  likely  their  numbers  and  strength  gave  them  un 
common  courage,  and  they  were  not  to  be  easily  fright 
ened.  I  remember  my  two  Indians  looked  at  each  other 
in  surprise  at  their  tranquillity.  We  lay  there  some  time 
on  our  breasts  in  the  snow,  looking  at  them.  The  In 
dians  observed  that  only  the  cows  were  fat  and  fit  to  kill. 
Some  of  the  stags  had  somehow  died  their  horns,  it 
seemed.  There  were  no  calves.  So  the  Indians  were 
delighted  to  know  that  there  wras  yet  another  herd.  We 
fell  back,  and  formed  our  plan  of  attack  at  leisure.  It 
was  unique  and  desperate.  We  did  not  want  one  or  two 
elk,  or  ten  ;  we  wanted  the  whole  herd.  Human  life 
depended  upon  our  prowess.  A  tribe  was  starving,  and 
we  felt  a  responsibility  in  our  work.  It  w&s  finally  de 
cided  to  go  around  and  approach  by  the  little  stream,  so 
that  the  herd  would  not  start  down  it — their  only  means 
of  escape.  It  was  planned  to  approach  as  closely  as  pos 
sible,  then  fire  with  our  rifles  at  the  fattest,  then  burst  in 
upon  them,  pistol  in  hand,  and  so,  breaking  their  ranks, 
scatter  them  in  the  snow,  where  the  Indians  could  rush 
upon  them  and  use  the  bows  and  arrows  at  their  backs. 

Slowly  and  cautiously  we  approached  up  the  little 
warm,  willow-lined  rivulet,  and  then,  firing  our  rifles,  we 
rushed  into  the  corral,  pistols  in  hand.  The  poor,  help 
less  herd  was  on  its  feet  in  a  second,  all  breaking  out 


78  MEMOKIE    AlTD    KIME. 

over  the  wall  of  snow,  breast  high  on  all  sides.  Here 
they  wallowed  and  floundered  in  the  snow,  shook  their 
heads  and  called  helplessly  to  each  other.  They  could 
not  get  on  at  all.  And  long  after  the  last  shot  and  the 
last  arrow  were  spent  1  leisurely  walked  around  and 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  some  of  these  fat,  sleek  cows  as 
they  lay  there,  up  to  their  briskets,  helpless  in  the  snow. 
Of  course  the  Indians  had  no  sentiment  in  this  matter. 
They  wanted  only  to  kill  and  secure  meat  for  the  hungry, 
and  half  an  hour  after  the  attack  on  the  corral  of  elk 
they  were  quartering  the  meat  and  hanging  it  up  in  trees 
secure  from  the  wolves.  In  this  way  they  hung  more 
than  a  hundred  elk,  not  taking  time  to  skin  or  dress  them 
in  any  way.  The  tallow  was  heaped  about  our  camp- 
fire,  to  be  defended  against  the  wolves  at  night.  And 
such  a  lot  of  wolves  as  came  that  night  !  And  such  a 
noise,  as  we  sat  there  feasting  about  the  fire  and  talking 
of  the  day's  splendid  work.  The  next  morning,  loaded 
with  tallow,  my  two  young  friends  set  out  on  the  long, 
tedious  journey  to  the  starving  camp  on  the  McCloud 
River.  They  were  going  to  bring  the  whole  tribe,  or,  at 
least,  such  of  them  as  could  make  the  trip,  and  the  re 
mainder  of  our  winter  was  to  be  spent  on  Mount  Shasta. 
I  was  once  more  left  alone.  J3ut  as  our  ammunition  at 
hand  was  spent,  I  was  in  great  fear  and  in  real  danger  of 
being  devoured  by  wolves.  They  drew  a  circle  around 
that  camp  and  laid  siege  to  it  like  an  army  of  well- 
drilled  soldiers.  They  would  sit  down  on  their  haunches 
not  twenty  steps  away,  and  look  at  me  in  the  most  appe 
tizing  fashion.  They  would  lick  their  chops,  as  if  to 
say,  "  We'll  get  you  yet  ;  it's  only  a  question  of  time." 
And  I  wish  to  put  it  on  record  that  wolves,  so  far  as  I 
can  testify,  are  better  behaved  than  the  books  tell  you 
they  are.  They  snarled  a  little  at  each  other  as  they  sat 


AN    ELK    HUJST   Itf   THE   SIERRAS.  79 

there,  over  a  dozen  deep,  around  me,  and  even  snapped 
now  and  then  at  each  other's  ears  ;  but  I  saw  not  one 
sign  of  their  eating  or  attempting  to  eat  each  other.  By 
day  they  kept  quiet,  and  only  looked  at  me.  But  it  was 
observed  that  each  day  they  came  and  sat  down  a  little 
bit  closer.  Xight,  of  course,  was  made  to  ring  with 
their  howls  both  far  and  near,  and  I  kept  up  a  great  fire. 
At  last — ah,  relief  of  Lucknow  ! — my  brave  boys  came 
back  breathless  into  camp.  And  after  them  for  days 
came  stringing,  struggling,  creeping,  a  long  black  line 
of  withered,  starving,  fellow-creatures.  To  see  them 
eat  !  To  see  their  hollow  eyes  fill  and  glow  with  grati 
tude  !  Ah,  I  have  had  some  few  summer  days,  some 
moments  of  glory,  when  the  heart  throbs  fall  and  the 
head  tops  heaven  ;  but  I  have  known  no  delight  like  this 
I  knew  there,  and  never  shall.  Christmas  came  and 
went,  and  I  knew  not  when,  for  I  had  now  in  my  care 
less  happiness  and  full  delight  lost  all  reckoning  of  time. 
But,  alas,  for  my  dream  of  lasting  rest  and  peace  with 
these  wild  people  of  Mount  Shasta  !  As  the  birds  of 
spring  began  to  sing  a  bit,  and  the  snow  to  soften  about 
our  lofty  camp,  a  messenger  came  stealing  tiptoe  over 
from  the  Pit  River  Valley.  And  lo  !  the  Indians  had 
risen,  starved  and  desperate,  and  murdered  every  white 
man  there.  And  I  knew  that  I  should  be  accused  of 
this. 


80  MEMOEIE   AND    RIME. 


IV. 


THE    PIT   RIVEK    MASSACRE. 

THE  English  spell  tlie  name  of  this  river  with  an  addi 
tional  letter,  as  if  after  the  name  of  an  eminent  states 
man.  But  I  think  the  above  is  right,  as  the  name  is 
certainly  derived  from  the  deep  and  dangerous  pits  that 
once  made  this  whole  vast  region  here — Pit  River  Valley 
— very  dangerous  ground  for  strangers.  These  pits,  dug 
in  trails  and  passes  by  squaws  who  carried  the  dirt  away 
in  baskets,  were  from  ten  to  twenty  feet  deep,  jug-shaped 
and  covered  with  twigs  and  reeds  and  leaves.  At  the 
bottom  lay  sharpened  elk  and  deer  antlers,  and  some 
times  sharpened  flints  and  spears,  pointed  up  to  receive 
the  victim.  Even  if  one  was  not  disembowelled  on  first 
falling  into  the  pit,  the  ugly  shape  of  it  made  it  not  only  im 
possible  for  man  but  for  even  the  most  savage  and  supple 
wild  beast  to  climb  again  to  the  light  ;  and  darkness  and 
a  lingering  death  were  the  inevitable  end.  These  pits  of 
course  made  the  land  a  terror,  and  it  was  not  until  as 
late  as  1856  that  this  most  lovely  valley  in  all  California 
was  fairly  possessed  by  settlers.  Once  in  possession,  the 
white  man  of  course  soon  found  out  the  secret  pits,  and 
they  gradually  filled  up  as  they  fell  into  disuse.  Yet  in 
the  Pit  River  war,  which  followed  the  massacre,  I  know 
that  one  man  and  several  horses  were  disembowelled  by 
these  dreaded  pits  ;  for  after  the  Indians  again  got  pos 
session  they  attempted  to  restore  this  curious  means  of 
defence  against  invasion. 

The  buds  were  beginning  to  swell  and  birds  to  sing  in 
the  sunniest  places  about  my  Indian  camp  on  the  south- 


THE    PIT    RIVER   MASSACRE.  81 

ern  slope  of  Mount  Shasta  as  the  news  came  of  the  Pit 
Kiver  massacre.  I  was  the  only  white  person  left  in  all 
the  country  round.  And  I  knew  at  once  that  I  would 
be  accused  of  having  advised  and  directed  the  massacre. 
For  all  knew  that  I  sympathized  with  the  Indians.  I 
cannot  enter  into  detail  to  show  how  the  Indians  had  been 
wronged  ;  how  they  had  been  driven  to  this  ;  how  their 
men  had  been  shot  down  for  no  other  offence  than  that 
of  having  wives  which  the  gold  hunters  and  gamblers 
desired  ;  how  that,  after  one  year  of  this  bloody  work, 
they  found  themselves  starving  and  dying  and  desperate  ; 
how  they  rose  up  and  swept  away  every  white  man  into 
eternity,  and  fed  their  little  ones  on  the  thousand  cattle. 
But  I  take  the  responsibility  of  saying  that  the  Indians 
were  entirely  in  the  right.  Politic  it  was  not.  It  meant 
their  final  annihilation.  But  they  died  finally  not  with 
out  some  revenge.  £s~or  will  I  trouble  myself  with  any 
detailed  denial  of  complicity  in  the  massacre.  If  I  had 
had  any  part  in  it  at  all,  I  certainly  should  not  hesitate  to 
say  so  frankly.  For  after  a  quarter  of  a  century,  look 
ing  at  the  matter  with  maturer  sense,  and  from  all  sides 
and  in  all  lights,  I  do  not  see  how  the  Indians  could  have 
done  anything  else  and  retain  a  bit  of  self-respect.  And 
I  do  not  see  how  the  white  men  could  have  expected 
anything  else  in  the  end.  The  rape  of  the  Sabines  was 
as  nothing  compared  to  the  ruthless  way  in  which  these 
men  had  seized  upon  the  handsomest  Indian  women  of 
the  valley  and  murdered  their  fathers,  brothers,  husbands, 
who  dared  protest  or  even  ventured  to  beg  about  their 
doors  as  the  winter  went  past,  while  they  housed  in 
comfort  in  the  snowy  valley  and  fed  their  fattened  herds 
in  half  a  dozen  great  corrals  made  of  ricks  of  hay.  This 
hay  was  fired  simultaneously  in  the  half-dozen  barracks 
scattered  over  the  valley,  generally  by  the  hand  of  a 


82  MEMORIE   AXD    RIME. 

captive  squaw  ;  and  as  the  white  men  fled  out  over  the 
snow  they  were  shot  down  by  the  Indians,  And  this  is 
the  story  of  the  massacre  as  it  came  to  me  at  my  camp 
early  in  the  spring  of  1857.  Two  white  men  only  had 
escaped.  They  had  not  been  pursued  ;  but  they  were 
known  to  be  at  that  time  trying  to  make  their  way 
through  the  snow  to  Yreka,  three  days'  travel  away  to 
the  north-west.  As  I  knew  their  line  of  retreat  would 
be  not  far  from  my  camp,  I  had  bonfires  set  on  a  cliff  of 
rocks  overlooking  the  country,  in  hope  that  they  might 
be  guided  to  my  camp  and  be  fed.  But  they  made  their 
way  to  Yreka  without  finding  me,  and  there  gave  the 
world  the  first  news  of  the  destruction  of  the  settlement. 
Of  course  I  did  not  know  of  their  final  escape,  but  think 
ing  to  give  the  first  information  of  the  deplorable  event, 
and  desiring  to  be  quite  certain  of  my  report,  I  set  out 
at  once  for  Pit  River  Valley,  sixty  miles  distant,  and  far 
below  my  camp  on  the  spurs  of  Mount  Shasta. 

Blackboard,  the  chief  of  the  tribe  I  had  cast  my  fort 
unes  with,  did  not  say  much.  He  advised  me,  however, 
to  keep  away  and  out  of  the  whole  affair.  But  I  had  an 
image  all  the  time  of  those  two  men  struggling  through 
the  snow  in  death,  and  terror  ringing  in  their  ears,  and  I 
wanted  to  meet  and  help  them.  And  then  we  had  been 
shut  up  in  camp  so  long,  were  so  full  of  rest,  that  re 
straint  was  hard  to  bear.  I  resolved,  however,  to  go  no 
nearer  than  the  great  bald  mountain  overlooking  the 
valley,  from  which  I  could  see  with  my  glass  and  be  able 
to  say  positively  whether  or  not  the  last  hay  fort  had 
been  burned.  My  two  favorite  young  I  ndians  were  per 
mitted  to  go  with  me.  But  the  chief  told  me  that  he 
should  lead  his  people  still  deeper  into  the  fastness. of 
Mount  Shasta,  try  to  keep  his  young  men  from  taking 
sides  in  the  coming  war,  and  wait  to  see  what  might 


THE    PIT    RIVER   MASSACRE.  83 

happen.  I  do  not  think  the  old  chief  doubted  my  devo 
tion  to  him  or  questioned  the  sincerity  of  my  cherished 
purpose  of  establishing  my  Indian  republic,  or  sort  of 
Indian  territory,  with  Mount  Shasta  for  its  geographical 
centre  and  he  for  its  head  chief.  But  I  think  he  gravely 
doubted  my  judgment,  as  well  he  might  at  that  time, 
and  so  he  did  not  give  me  his  confidence  at  all.  In  fact, 
so  far  from  trusting  me,  he  deceived  me.  For  I  could 
see  busy  preparation  for  battle  going  on  all  about  me. 
The  morning  I  set  out  with  my  two  young  followers, 
with  the  promise  to  go  no  farther  than  the  great  bald 
mountain  overlooking  the  valley,  I  missed  several  of  our 
best  warriors  from  the  camp.  They  had,  like  Job's 
war-horse,  "  sniffed  the  battle  from  afar,"  and  had  gone 
like  true  gentlemen  to  champion  their  color  and  their 
kind,  and  to  battle  for  the  right,  as  it  was  given  them  to 
see  the  right,  and — die  ! 

S  x 

After  such  a  swift  day's  run  over  the  snow  as  seems 
almost  incredible,  we  stood  in  the  sunset  on  the  summit 
of  the  bald  mountain  overlooking  Pit  River  Valley.  No 
smoke  curled  any  more  against  the  cold  blue  sky  that 
rounded  above  the  vast  valley.  The  stillness  of  death 
hung  over  it.  Where  the  great  hay-ricks  had  been 
drawn  around  the  herds  of  cattle  in  secure  corrals,  with 
the  houses  in  the  centre,  only  black  spots  were  to  be 
seen.  The  snow  had  disappeared  from  the  valley,  and 
instead  of  the  weary  and  eternal  white  that  had  met  my 
eyes  everywhere  for  so  many  months,  I  witnessed  the 
welcome  green  of  spring  spread  like  a  carpet  beneath 
me.  I  could  almost  smell  the  flowers.  Far  beyond  and 
across  the  two  great  rivers  that  cleave  the  glorious  valley 
1  could  see  a  boundless  field  of  blue.  This  was  the 
camas  blossom.  This  flower  sweeps  over  and  purples  all 
Oregon  in  the  early  spring.  Civilization  has  laid  hand 


84  MEMORIE    AND    HIME. 

on  it,  named  it  the  hyacinth,  and  grows  it  in  single  stems 
from  bulbs  carefully  kept  in  windows  and  warm  places 
in  the  spring-time. 

How  I  wanted  to  go  down  and  gather  a  handful  of 
flowers  !  What  gift  would  be  so  precious  for  some  one 
waiting  for  my  return  back  in  the  camp  of  snow  and 
woods  ?  I  know  this  sentence  and  this  sentiment  read 
absurdly,  and  my  only  excuse  for  it  is  its  absolute  truth. 
I  knew  quite  well  that  away  down  there  in  each  of  those 
dark  spots  dead  men  lay  unburied,  and  that  the  beauti 
ful  valley  before  me,  another  Eden  from  which  man  had 
been  newly  expelled,  was  soon  to  be  the  scene  of  bloody 
war ;  that  my  own  life  was  in  peril  from  both  races  and 
in  all  places  now  ;  and  yet  all  this,  all  these  perils  were 
as  nothing  compared  to  my  desire,  my  determination  to 
have  a  handful  of  flowers. 

As  we  stood  there  the  stars  came  out — they  came  out 
shyly,  timidly,  as  on  tiptoe.  I  saw  them  come  out  while 
it  was  yet  day,  twinkle  a  bit  and  then  go  back,  as  if 
afraid.  By  and  by  they  trooped  out  in  armies,  and  all 
heaven  was  ablaze  with  the  biggest  stars  this  side  of 
Syria.  They  stood  out  above  the  gleaming  snow-peaks 
about  us  so  near  and  clear  that  you  might  almost  fancy 
you  heard  them  clink  against  their  fronts  of  icy  helmets. 
The  stillness  was  like  a  song,  an  immortal  melody.  We 
listened,  we  leaned  and  listened  ;  the  stars  leaned  out  of 
heaven  listening.  No  sound  of  life.  No  sound  of  strife 
now.  Ederi  was  as  still  on  the  day  before  the  fashioning 
of  man.  Should  I  turn  back  as  I  promised  ?  Perhaps 
if  I  had  not  promised  so  certainly  I  had  not  so  madly 
resolved  to  see  more.  Yet  I  could  have  resisted  all  the 
temptation  to  slide  down  that  steep  mountain  of  snow 
and  see  and  know  all,  had  it  not  been  for  the  flowers. 
Oh,  the  mad  glory  of  going  down  there  and  grasping  the 


TIIK    PIT    HIVEK    MASSACRE.  85 

summer  in  my  hand  and  taking  her  back  to  winter  in 
the  wilderness  ! 

Pretty  soon  Indian  camp-fires  began  to  gleam  about 
the  green  and  wooded  girdle  of  the  valley.  Fate  set  one 
of  these  camp-fires  almost  at  our  feet.  Seven  miles  dis 
tant  and  one  mile  perpendicular  !  We  looked  each  other 
in  the  face  as  we  stood  there  on  the  starlit  summit  of 
snow  and  saw  the  camp-fire  gleam  through  the  green 
pine  tops  at  our  feet.  That  light  down  there  was  death 
to  any  moth  that  might  flutter  too  closely  about  it.  But 
it  was  irresistible.  And  then  the  flowers  ! 

I  tightened  my  belt.  The  Indians  did  the  same. 
Then  with  but  a  single  word  we  bounded  down  that 
steep  mountain  of  snow  with  a  wild  and  savage  delight 
that  I  defy  any  mortal  to  feel  inside  the  pale  of  civiliza 
tion.  The  night  was  our  friend.  With  her  protecting 
arms  about  us,  her  mantle  shutting  us  in  from  the  sight 
of  unfriendly  eyes,  we  would  look  in  upon  the  Indian 
camp,  we  would  hear  their  speeches  about  the  council 
fire,  see  their  wild,  splendid  gestures  !  Ah,  we  would 
have  something  to  tell  when  we  returned.  And  then 
the  flowers  ! 

I  dare  not  cay  how  soon  we  reached  that  camp,  nor 
have  I  time  to  enter  into  detail.  What  narrow  escapes 
of  discovery  as  we  lay  on  our  bellies  under  the  sweet- 
smelling  pines  and  listened  to  -the  stirring  eloquence  of 
the  nearly  naked  warriors.  How  the  blood  tingles  at 
such  times  !  What  a  spice  peril  like  this  gives  to  life  ! 

Soon  the  feasting  began.  Then  the  tempting  smell  of 
roasted  beef  was  too  much  for  our  hungry  stomachs  to  bear 
longer,  and  as  we  could  hear  nothing  more  and  could 
really  do  nothing  at  all,  we  passed  on  around  the  camp 
and  went  still  on  till  we  came  to  the  level  valley  and  the 
warm  naked  earth  with  flowers  at  her  breast  and  girdle. 


86  MEMORIE   AND    HIME. 

I  snatched  these  flowers  from  the  hand  of  nature  that 
reached  them  up  from  the  south,  and  then,  with  a  little 
detour  where  we  saw  a  nude  dead  man — a  mute,  unchal 
lenged  witness  of  the  massacre— we  began,  weak  and 
hungry,  to  climb  the  mountain  on  our  return. 

Day  dashed  in  upon  us  like  troopers  long  before  we 
knew  it.  We  had  forgotten  the  stars  in  the  dial-plate 
above  in  the  intense  excitement  before  us,  and  before  we 
had  quite  left  the  edge  of  the  open  valley  we  were  in  the 
full  light. 

Suddenly  we  met  two  old  women.  They  were  at 
tached  to  an  outpost  which  we  had  passed  in  the  night, 
and  were  on  their  way  to  the  camp  we  had  been  spying 
out.  We  took  them  with  us,  and  ran  up  the  hills  as  fast 
as  our  weak  and  worn  legs  would  carry  us.  When  quite 
in  the  woods  and  well  up  the  mountain-side,  the  Indians 
wanted  to  kill  the  women,  fearing  that  they  might 
escape  and  give  the  alarm.  I  protested.  The  old 
women  listened  and  understood  all  that  was  said.  They 
of  course  took  sides  with  me.  The  young  Indians  seemed 
very  much  set  on  this  notion  of  theirs,  and  finally,  odd 
as  it  may  seem,  we  deliberately  sat  down  there  on  the 
steep  and  snowy  mountain-side  and  argued  the  thing 
quite  a  while,  the  old  women  taking  a  very  active  part 
in  the  argument,  as  you  may  well  believe. 

Finally  one  of  them  broke  away  and  escaped.  Then 
of  course  we  set  the  other  loose  and  dashed  ahead  with 
all  the  strength  that  desperation  could  lend  us.  A  hun 
dred  swift  fellows  would  be  at  our  heels  in  an  hour,  we 
knew  right  well. 

As  we  climbed  one  hill,  with  a  great  hollow  behind 
us,  we  could  see  the  trees  alive  on  the  ridge  behind  us 
and  across  the  steep,  deep  hollow.  But  they  were  too 
far  away  to  shoot  at  us  yet.  One  more  hill  before  us  ! 


THE    PIT    RIVER    MASSACRE.  87 


As  we  finally  struggled  to  the  summit  of  the  old  bald 
mountain,  where  we  had  stood  in  the  twilight  of  the  day 
before,  I  being  literally  borne  and  dragged  between  my 
two  companions,  we  saw  the  base  of  the  hill  black  with 
savages.  And  1  could  scarcely  stand  !  It  was  decided  to 
descend  the  mountain  to  the  left  and  cross  the  McCloud. 
The  Indians  tore  off  some  tough  cedar  bark  from  a  dead 
trunk,  tied  me  in  this  hollowed  cradle,  and  so  dragging 
me  darted  down  the  hill  toward  the  McCloud  Kiver  on  a 
swift  run.  Once  safely  near  the  river  we  began  to  feel 
relieved.  On  the  bluff  above  the  river  they  took  me 
out,  stood  me  between  them  and  rushed  down  the  steep 
wooded  hill  to  the  water's  edge.  The  enemy  stopped  on 
the  steep  bluffs  above  and  overlooking  the  river.  They 
were  within  pistol-shot  behind  the  trees  scattered  about 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  But  they  knew  too  much  to  follow 
us  into  the  thicket.  Ko,  they  preferred  to  pick  us  off 
at  their  leisure  as  we  attempted  to  swim  the  river. 

But  swim  that  river,  swift  and  strong  and  cold  as  death, 
I  could  not.  So  my  two  Indian  friends  rolled  a  light  dry 
log  into  the  water  as  we  lay  close  under  the  bank  hidden 
from  the  enemy  above,  who  were  waiting  to  see  us  plunge 
into  the  stream  before  us.  I  lay  down  on  this  log,  one  of 
the  Indians  taking  charge  of  my  arms.  Then  they  came 
into  the  water  with  me.  They  pushed  the  log  down  the 
river  under  the  steep  bank,  unseen  by  those  on  the  hill, 
and  both  clung  to  it  as  the  swift  current  bore  us  away. 
This  was  our  escape  !  Before  the  Indians  on  the  bluff 
suspected  it,  we  were  a  mile  away  down  the  river  and 
climbing  the  bank  on  the  other  side.  They  did  not 
follow  us  further.  The  two  brave  fellows  left  me  and 
went  on  for  help  when  certain  we  were  not  followed. 
And  so  I  finally  reached  camp,  barely  alive,  and  with  no 
sign  of  summer  or  sweet  flowers  in  my  feeble  hand. 


88  MEMOKIE   AKD    RIME. 

V. 

THE    GIRL    OF    THE    LONG    AGO. 

OH,  yon  all  have  seen  her.  And  you  all  have  loved 
her,  and  loved  her  honestly  and  well.  An  honest  old 
miner  I  met  yesterday  told  me  he  saw  her  first  a  tow- 
headed,  barefooted  girl,  thirty  years  ago,  licking  mo 
lasses  in  a  Wabash  sugar-camp  from  a  wooden  ladle  ;  that 
she  was  lovely,  honest,  and  good  as  gold  ;  that  her  eyes 
were  lost  bits  of  the  blue  heaven  overhead,  and  her  hair 
like  spun  gold  ;  that  she  was  only  a  baby  then  and  he  a 
boy  of  a  dozen  years,  but  for  all  that  he  loved  her  and  he 
loves  her  still.  We  know  and  he  knows  too,  if  he  would 
only  admit  it  to  himself,  that  Time  has  stolen  the  roses 
from  her  pretty  baby  face,  bowed  and  made  slow  and 
sad  the  willowy  form,  filled  the  blue  heaven  of  her  eyes 
with  pitiful  tears,  and  sifted  his  cold  snows  thick  through 
the  gold  of  her  hair.  Yet  to  him  she  stands  there  eter 
nally  young,  eternally  fair,  licking  the  sugar  ladle, 
laughing  at  him,  looking  down  in  love  through  the  blue 
heaven  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 

Another  old  man  has  taken  me  into  his  confidence,  and 
has  told  me  with  a  shake  of  his  few  gray  locks  that  the 
girls  of  to-day  are  not  what  the  girls  used  to  be  when  he 
was  in  the  States.  Ah,  there  was  one,  he  went  on  to 
say  very  earnestly,  who  loved  her  mother,  loved  her 
father,  loved  him,  and  did  not  flirt  at  all.  She  sat 
knitting  all  the  time  with  meek  and  downcast  eyes,  and 
talked  of  butter  and  eggs,  little  chickens,  and  the  coming 
crop.  She  had  helped  to  plant  the  corn,  she  milked 
the  cows,  minded  the  calves,  and  had  spun  and  woven 
every  shred  of  every  garment  she  wore. 


THE    GIRL   OF   THE    LONG    AGO. 

In  the  better  or  rather  the  broader  walks  of  life,  I  find 
the  same  doubt  and  question.  But  ah,  iny  dear  old  boys, 
human  nature  has  not  changed.  It  is  we  that  have 
changed.  A  girl  of  eighteen  is  still  a  girl  of  eighteen  to 
every  touch  of  the  hand,  to  every  thrill  of  love  and 
every  pulse  of  her  proud,  pure  heart.  Confidentially, 
my  dear  old  comrades  of  the  mining  camp,  it  is  we  that 
have  changed.  The  trouble  is  we  are  no  longer  eight 
een  ourselves,  not  by  a  long  shot !  And  the  trouble  is 
the  girls  know  it.  But  if  it  is  any  consolation  to  you, 
here  are  the  lines  you  solicited,  to  the  memories  of  the 
past  : 

TO    THE    GIRL   OF    LONG   AGO. 

I  think  she  was  fairer  than  the  girl  of  to-day — 

She  was  dearer  by  far,  I  know  ; 
And  never  I  questioned  the  queenly  sway 

Of  the  girl  of  long  ago. 

Then  where  is  the  darling  of  long  ago, 
When  the  blood  ran  warmer  than  wine  ? 

Is  she  under  the  lilies  or  under  the  snow, 
The  darlingest  girl  of  mine  ? 

Has  she  laid  down  to  rest  with  the  sod  on  her  breast, 

The  cherished  of  long  ago  ? 
Has  she  wandered  afar,  where  the  strange  ways  are  ? 

Is  her  dark  hair  white  like  snow  ? 

Oh,  whether  afar  where  the  strange  ways  are, 

Or  whether  above  or  below, 
God  keep  her  from  harm,  for  her  heart  was  so  warm — 

And  oh,  I  loved  her  so  ! 


WHAT    IS    LOVE? 

What  is  love  ?  or  who  is  love  ?  Count  the  leaves  on 
the  trees  and  count  the  kinds  of  trees  there  are,  and  mark 
their  changes,  their  color,  their  kind  ;  define  each  well — 


90  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

the  development,  the  decay,  the  beauty,  the  glory  of 
their  full  flower,  the  pathos  of  their  decline,  the  pity  of 
the  strewn  leaves  that  once  lorded  and  laughed  high  in 
the  sun — such  is  love,  my  innocent  boy,  my  old  and 
cynical  sinner,  such  is  love.  And  the  man  who  says  he 
can  hold  love  and  bind  him  in  thongs  or  lay  down  law 
that  love  will  obey  and  so  live  with  him,  is  a  very  young 
man. 

I  can  only  advise  this  :  be  worthy  of  being  loved.  And 
then,  like  a  tree  that  bears  perpetual  flowers,  the  busy 
bees  will  seek  you  soon  or  late,  and  will  not  be  in  haste 
to  fly  away,  but  will  stay  and  stay  and  come  again  and 
again.  This  is  a  very  business-like  world.  Without 
caring  to  admit  it,  without  even  knowing  it,  perhaps,  the 
best  of  us  will  find  that  this  is  a  world  of  commerce,  even 
in  love.  You  get  just  about  as  much  as  you  give. 
You  must  pay  for  love  with  love.  You  must  pay  for 
love  with  real  love,  mind  you,  not  counterfeit  love,  not 
make-believe  love,  not  a  greenback  love,  away  below 
par,  but  a  real  gold  coin,  full  measure,  sixteen-dollar-to- 
the-ounce  love,  and  my  word  for  it  the  eternal  equity  of 
the  court  of  heaven  will  see  that  you  we  not  cheated 
out  of  a  single  cent  that  you  honestly  invest. 

But  oh,  this  idea  of  trying  to  put  love  in  a  cage  and 
keep  it  there,  as  you  would  a  monkey  or  a  parrot,  while 
you  go  out  and  have  a  good  time,  and  expect  to  find  it 
there  when  you  come  back  !  It  won't  do.  Love  has 
more  sense  in  one  minute  than  the  cunningest  man 
that  ever  lived  ever  had  in  his  whole  life.  And  you 
can't  fool  with  love  without  being  made  a  fool  of 
yourself.  No;  give  love  the  liberty  you  love  so  well 
yourself.  Give  love  the  liberty  to  go,  and  he  will  stay 
right  there  forever  and  forever,  if  you  will  only  give  him 
a  pole  to  perch  on  and  even  so  much  as  a  cracker  to  eat. 


THE    GIRL   OF   THE    LONG    AGO.  91 


"WHO   IS   LOVE  ? 

Why,  Love,  my  love  is  a  dragon-fly 

That  weaves  by  the  beautiful  river, 
Where  waters  flow  warm,  where  willows  droop  by, 

Where  lilies  dip  waveward  and  quiver  ; 
Where  stars  of  heaven  they  shine  for  aye, 
If  you  take  not  hold  of  that  dragon-fly, 

By  the  musical,  mystical  river. 

Let  Love  go  his  ways  ;  let  the  lilies  grow- 
By  that  beautiful,  silvery  river  ; 

Let  tall  tules  nod  ;  let  noisy  reeds  blow  ; 
Let  the  lilies'  lips  open  and  quiver  ; 

But  when  Love  may  come,  or  when  Love  may  go, 

You  may  guess  and  may  guess,  but  you  never  shall  know, 
While  the  silver  stars  ride  on  that  river. 

But  this  you  may  know  :  If  you  clasp  Love's  wings, 

And  you  hold  him  hard  by  that  river, 
Why,  his  eyes  grow  green,  and  he  turns  and  he  stings, 

And  the  waters  wax  icy  and  shiver  ; 
The  waters  wax  chill  and  the  silvery  wings 
Of  Love  they  are  broken,  as  broken  heart-strings, 

While  darkness  comes  down  on  that  river. 


'Tis  a  land  so  far  that  you  wonder  whether 
E'en  God  would  know  it  should  you  fall  down  dead 

'  Tis  a  land  so  far  through  the  wilds  and  weather, 
That  the  sun  falls  weary  and  flushed  and  red, — 

That  the  sea  and  tJie  sky  seem  coming  together, 
Seem  dosing  together  as  a  book  that  is  read  : 

Oh !  the  nude,  weird  West,  where  an  unnamed  river 
Rolls  restless  in  bed  of  bright  silver  and  gold  ; 

Where  white  flashing  mountains  flow  rivers  of  silver 
As  a  rock  of  the  desert  flowed  fountains  of  old  ; 

By  a  dark  wooded  river  that  calls  to  the  dawn, 

And  makes  mouths  at  the  sea  with  his  dolorous  swan: 

Oh!  the  land  of  the  wonderful  sun  and  weather, 
With  green  underfoot  and  with  gold  over  head, 

Where  the  sun  lakes  flame  and  you  wonder  whether 
'  Tis  an  isle  offlre  in  his  foamy  bed: 

Where  the  ends  of  the  earth  they  are  welding  together 
In  a  rough-hewn  fashion,  in  a  forge-flame  red. 


III. 

OREGON. 


I. 

IN    THE    LAND    OF    CLOUDS. 

MONTHS  ago  we  steamed  away  from  San  Francisco  for 
the  wild  and  savage  coast  of  Oregon.  A  rugged  coast 
is  hers  ;  a  hard  and  almost  impenetrable  hull  like  a  wal 
nut's,  and  with  a  kernel  quite  as  sweet  when  once  you 
get  inside.  Almost  a  thousand  miles,  as  the  sea  runs, 
and  hardly  a  single  inviting  harbor. 

But  once  inside  her  white  sea-shores,  and  a  world  so 
grand,  so  sublime  and  vast,  so  entirely  new,  is  yours, 
that  you  stand  uncovered,  as  if  you  had  entered  the 
home  of  the  eternal. 

?Tis  the  new-finished  world  ;  how  silent  with  wonder 
Stand  all  things  around  you  ;  the  flowers  are  faint 

And  lean  on  your  shoulder.     You  wander  on  under 
^  The  broad,  gnarly  boughs,  so  colossal  and  quaint, 

You  breathe  the  sweet  balsam  where  boughs  break  asunder— 
The  world  seems  so  new,  as  it  smelling  of  paint. 

The  Indians  tell  you  that  giants  dwelt  here  of  old  ; 
that  they  fought  for  this  peerless  land,  fought  for  it  to 
the  death,  and  that  these  seventeen  peaks  of  ever- 


94  MEMO  III E    AND    RIME. 

lasting  snow  are  their  monuments,  which  they  built 
above  their  dead. 

Well,  whatever  be  the  traditions,  or  the  truths,  it  is 
something  to  have  seen  this  land  when  it  came  first  from 
the  Creator's  hand  to  the  possession  of  man.  It  is 
sweet  to  have  loved  it  first,  last,  and  always.  So  sweet 
to  have  set  the  cross  of  song  on  its  everlasting  summits, 
and  so  sit  down  and  wait  for  stronger  and  better  and 
more  cunning  minstrels  to  come  and  subdue  it  to  their 
dominion. 

Yet  on  the  proudest  of  these  peaks  I  tried  to  set  some 
thing  more  than  a  song.  There  are  footprints  on  its 
topmost  limits,  for  frowning  and  cloud-roofed  Mount 
Hood  is  not  at  all  unapproachable  ;  but  even  woman,  if 
she  loves  him  well  and  has  the  daring  and  audacity  of 
some  English  travellers  I  have  known,  may  conquer  him, 
put  him  under  her  pretty  feet,  easily. 

Here  lifts  the  land  of  clouds  !     The  mantled  forms, 

Made  white  with  everlasting  snow,  look  down 

Through  mists  of  many  canons,  and  the  storms 

That  stretch  from  Autumn-time  until  they  drown 

The  yellow  hem  of  Spring.     The  cedars  frown, 

Dark-brow'd  through  banner' d  clouds  that  stretch  and  stream 

Above  the  sea  from  snowy  mountain  crown. 

The  heavens  roll,  and  all  things  drift  or  seem 

To  drift  about  and  drive  like  some  majestic  dream. 

Mount  Hood  stands  about  sixty  miles  from  the  great 
Pacific,  as  the  crow  flies,  and  about  two  hundred  miles 
up  the  Columbia  River,  as  it  is  navigated.  The  Colum 
bia  is  tranquil  here — mild  and  calm  and  dreamy  as  Lake 
Como.  But  twenty  miles  higher,  past  the  awful  over 
hanging  snow-peak  that  looks  as  if  it  might  blow  over 
on  us  as  we  sail  up  under  it,  the  grand  old  river  is  all 
torrent  and  foam  and  fearful  cataract. 

Mount  Hood  stands  utterly  alone.     And  yet  he  is  not 


IX    THE    LAXD    OF    CLOUDS,  05 

at  all  alone.     He  is  only  a  brother,  a  bigger  and  taller 
brother,  of  a  well-raised  family  of  seven  snow-peaks. 

At  any  season  of  the  year,  you  can  stand  on  almost 
any  little  eminence  within  two  hundred  miles  of  Mount 
Hood  and  count  seven  snow-cones,  clad  in  eternal  winter, 
piercing  the  clouds.  There  is  no  scene  so  sublime  as 
this  in  all  the  world. 

The  mountains  of  Europe  are  only  hills  in  comparison. 
Although  some  of  them  are  quite  as  high  as  those  of 
Oregon  and  Washington  Territory,  yet  they  lie  far  in 
land,  and  are  so  set  on  the  top  of  other  hills  that  they 
lose  much  of  their  majesty.  Those  of  Oregon  start  up 
sudden  and  solitary,  and  almost  out  of  the  sea,  as  it  were. 
So  that  while  they  are  really  not  much  higher  than  the 
mountain  peaks  of  the  Alps,  they  seem  to  be  about  twice 
as  high.  And  being  all  in  the  form  of  pyramids  or 
cones,  they  are  much  more  imposing  and  beautiful  than 
those  of  either  Asia  or  Europe. 

But  that  which  adds  most  of  all  to  the  beauty  and  sub 
limity  of  the  mountain  scenery  of  Mount  Hood  and  his 
environs  is  the  marvellous  cloud  effects  that  encompass 
him. 

In  the  first  place,  you  must  understand  that  all  this 
region  here  is  one  black  mass  of  matchless  and  magnifi 
cent  forests.  From  the  water's  edge  up  to  the  snow- 
line,  clamber  and  cling  the  dark  green  fir,  pine,  cedar, 
tamarack,  yew,  and  juniper.  Some  of  the  pines  are 
heavy  with  great  cones  as  long  as  your  arms  ;  some 
of  the  yew  trees  are  scarlet  with  berries  ;  and  now  and 
then  you  see  a  burly  juniper  bending  under  a  load  of 
blue  and  bitter  fruit.  And  nearly  all  of  these  trees  are 
mantled  in  garments  of  moss.  This  moss  trails  and 
swings  lazily  in  the  wind,  and  sometimes  droops  to  the 
length  of  a  hundred  feet. 


96  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

In  these  dark  forests  is  a  dense  undergrowth  of  vine- 
maple,  hazel,  mountain  ash,  marsh  ash,  willow,  and  brier 
bushes.  Tangled  in  with  all  this  is  the  rank  and  ever- 
present  and  imperishable  fern.  This  fern,  which  is  the 
terror  of  the  Oregon  farmer,  stands  so  rank  and  so  thick 
on  the  ground  in  the  forests  that  oftentimes  you  cannot 
see  two  yards  before  you,  and  your  feet  can  hardly  touch 
the  ground.  Through  this  jungle,  with  the  great  dark 
trees  towering  hundreds  of  feet  above,  prowl  the  black 
bear,  the  panther,  the  catamount,  and  the  California 
lion. 

Up  and  through  and  over  all  this  darkness  of  forests, 
drift  and  drag  and  lazily  creep  the  most  weird  and  won 
derful  clouds  in  all  this  world.  They  move  in  great 
caravans.  They  seem  literally  to  be  alive.  They  rise 
with  the  morning  sun,  like  the  countless  millions  of 
snow-white  geese,  swans  and  other  water-fowl  that  fre 
quent  the  rivers  of  Oregon,  and  slowly  ascend  the  moun 
tain  sides,  dragging  themselves  through  and  over  the 
tops  of  the  trees,  heading  straight  for  the  sea,  or  hover 
ing  about  the  mountain  peaks,  as  if  they  were  mighty 
white-winged  birds,  weary  of  flight  and  wanting  to  rest. 

They  are  white  as  snow,  these  clouds  of  Oregon,  fleecy, 
and  rarely,  if  ever,  still.  Constantly  moving  in  contrast 
with  the  black  forests,  these  clouds  are  strangely,  sadly 
sympathetic  to  one  who  worships  nature. 

Of  course,  in  the  rainy  season,  which  is  nearly  half  the 
year  here,  these  cloud  effects  are  absent.  At  such  times 
the  whole  land  is  one  vast  rain-cloud,  dark  and  dreary 
and  full  of  thunder. 

To  see  a  snow-peak  in  all  its  sublimity,  you  must  see 
it  above  ihe  clouds.  It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should 
climb  the  peak  to  do  this,  but  ascend  some  neighboring 
hill  and  have  the  white  clouds  creep  up  or  down  the  val- 


IX    THE    LAND    OF   CLOUDS.  97 

ley,  through  and  over  the  black  forest,  between  you  and 
the  snowy  summit  that  pricks  the  blue  home  of  stars. 
What  color  !  Movement  !  Miraculous  life  ! 

A  few  months  ago,  I  met  a  party  of  English  travel 
lers  who  were  completing  the  circuit  of  the  world  by  way 
of  San  Francisco.  I  was  on  my  way  to  Oregon,  and  this 
party  decided  to  sail  up  the  coast  with  me,  and,  if  possi 
ble,  ascend  Mount  Hood. 

The  party  consisted  of  a  gentleman  and  his  wife,  his 
wife's  sister  and  brother,  besides  their  little  child  of 
about  ten  years,  a  pale  little  cripple  on  crutches.  The 
journey  around  the  world  had  been  undertaken,  I  was 
told,  in  the  hope  of  restoring  her  to  health.  So  she  was 
humored  in  every  way,  and  everything  possible  done  to 
please  and  amuse  her. 

We  sailed  pleasantly  up  the  barren,  rocky,  and  moun 
tainous  coast  of  Oregon  for  two  days,  and  all  the  way  we 
watched  the  long,  moving  lines  of  white  clouds  clinging 
about  the  mountain-tops,  creeping  through  the  mountain 
passes  in  long,  unbroken  lines,  or  hovering  wearily 
around  some  snowy  summit  ;  and  the  English  travellers 
counted  it  all  strangely  beautiful. 

Not  a  sail  in  sight  all  these  two  days.  And  the  waters 
of  this,  the  vastest  of  all  seas,  as  still  and  as  blue  as  the 
blue  skies  above  us. 

Whale/  kept  spouting  about  us,  and  dolphins  tumbled 
like  circus  men  before  us  ;  and  the  pale  little  cripple, 
sitting  on  the  deck  on  a  soft  chair  made  of  shreds  of 
cane  or  rattan  by  the  cunning  Chinamen,  seemed  very 
happy.  She  had  a  lapdog,  of  which  she  was  amazingly 
fond.  The  dog,  however,  did  not  seem  so  fond  of  her. 
He  was  a  very  active  fellow,  full  of  battle,  and  much 
preferred  to  lying  in  her  lap  the  more  active  amusement 
of  running  and  barking  at  the  sailors  and  passengers. 


98  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

After  some  ugly  bumps  on  the  sand-bars  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Columbia — a  place  strewn  with  skeletons  of  ships 
— we  at  length  entered  this  noble  river.  It  is  nearly  ten 
miles  wide  here,  and  many  little  islands,  covered  writh 
tangled  woods  from  water's  edge  to  summit,  dot  the 
wide  and  tranquil  harbor. 

Half  a  day's  hard  steaming  up  the  river,  with  here  and 
there  a  little  village  nestling  in  the  dense  wood  on  the 
water's  edge  at  the  base  of  the  mighty  mountains  on 
either  side,  and  we  were  in  Portland  and  preparing  to 
ascend  Mount  Hood. 

It  seems  incredible,  but,  unlike  all  other  mountains  of 
importance,  this  one  has  no  regular  guides.  We  had  to 
hunt  up  and  make  an  entire  outfit  of  our  own. 

Of  course  the  little  cripple  was  left  behind,  with  her 
nurse  and  dog,  when  we  five  gayly  mounted  and  rode 
down  to  the  ferry  to  cross  the  Willamette  River,  which 
lies  at  the  edge  of  the  town  and  between  our  hotel  and 
Mount  Hood. 

As  the  boat  pushed  off,  the  little  cripple's  frolicsome 
dog,  Vixey,  leaped  in  with  us  from  the  shore,  barking 
and  bounding  with  delight,  to  think  he  was  to  escape 
being  nursed  and  was  to  make  one  of  the  expedition. 

We  rode  hard  through  the  tangled  woods,  with  rank 
ferns  and  brier  bushes  and  thimbleberry  bushes  in  our 
faces.  We  climbed  up  almost  entirely  unfrequented 
roads  and  trails  for  half  a  day.  Then  we  dismounted  by 
a  dark,  treacherous,  sandy  stream,  and  lunched. 

Mounting  again,  we  pushed  on  in  single  file,  follow 
ing  our  guides  as  fast  as  we  could  up  steep  banks,  over 
stones  and  fallen  logs,  and  through  almost  impenetrable 
tangles  of  fern  and  vine-maple.  There  were  three 
guides.  One,  an  Indian,  kept  far  ahead  on  foot,  blazing 
out  the  way  with  a  tomahawk,  and  shouting  back  and 


IX    THE    LAXD    OF    CLOUDS.  99 

yelling  to  the  other  guides  till  he  made  the  solemn  forest 
ring. 

The  two  ladies  kept  the  saddle  and  clung  to  the 
horses'  manes.  But  the  men  often  dismounted  and  led 
their  tired  horses  by  the  bridle. 

The  yelping  dog  had  gone  astray  a  dozen  times,  chas 
ing  squirrels,  deer,  and  even  birds,  and  I  heartily  hoped 
he  would  get  lost  entirely,  for  I  abhor  poodles.  But 
the  parents  of  the  little  cripple,  when  he  would  get  lost, 
would  not  go  on  without  him.  So  this  kept  us  back,  and 
we  did  not  reach  the  snow-line  till  dusk. 

The  guides  had  shot  a  deer,  two  grouse,  and  many 
gray  squirrels  ;  so  that,  when  we  had  made  a  roaring  fire 
of  pine  knots,  and  had  fed  and  rubbed  down  our  worn- 
out  horses,  we  sat  there  in  the  light  of  our  great  fire  by 
the  snow  border,  and  feasted  famously.  For  oh,  we 
were  hungry  ! 

Then  we  laid  down.  But  it  seemed  to  me  we  were 
hardly  well  asleep  before  the  guides  were  again  boiling 
coffee,  and  shouting  to  each  other  about  the  work  of  the 
new  day.  How  tired  we  all  were  still  !  All  but  that 
dog.  That  noisy  and  nervous  little  poodle  seemed  to  be 
as  eager  as  the  guides  to  get  us  up  and  on  before  the 
sun  had  softened  the  snow. 

^  In  the  gray  dawn,  after  a  solid  breakfast,  each  with  a 
pike  in  hand  and  hobnailed  shoes  on  the  feet,  we  were 
in  line,  lifting  our  faces  in  the  sharp,  frosty  air  for  the 
summit  of  Mount  Hood. 

The  snow  was  full  of  holes.  Now  and  then  a  man 
would  sink  to  his  waist.  We  strangers  would  laugh  at 
this.  But  observing  that  the  guides  took  such  mishaps 
seriously,  we  inquired  the  reason.  When  they  told  us 
that  some  of  these  holes  were  bottomless,  we  too  became 
serious,  and  took  hold  of  the  long  rope  which  they  car- 


100  MEMORIE  A:NTD  RIME. 

Tied,  and  never  let  go.  The  ladies  brought  up  the  rear, 
and,  like  all  English  ladies,  endured  the  fatigue  wonder 
fully.  That  tireless  little  dog  yelped  and  bounded,  now 
in  the  face  of  this  man,  now  in  the  face  of  that,  and 
seemed  by  his  omnipresence  to  belong  to  flank  and  rear 
and  van. 

Before  noon  we  came  to  a  great  crack,  or  chasm,  or 
cleft,  in  the  mountain  side,  for  which  the  guides  could 
give  no  reason.  Their  only  idea  of  it  appeared  to  be  one 
of  terror — their  only  object  to  escape  it."  They  all  fas 
tened  the  rope  to  their  belts,  so  that,  in  the  event  of  one 
falling  in,  the  others  could  draw  him  back. 

As  we  advanced  we  found  the  mountain  precipitous, 
but  in  nowise  perilous,  if  we  except  these  treacherous 
cracks  and  holes  referred  to. 

NOWT  and  then  we  would  lean  on  our  pikes  and  turn 
our  heads  to  the  world  below.  Beautiful  !  Beautiful  ! 
Eivers  of  silver  !  Cities,  like  birds'  nests,  dotted  down 
in  the  wilderness  beneath.  But  no  one  spoke,  when 
speaking  could  be  avoided.  The  air  was  so  rare  that  we 
were  all  the  time  out  of  breath. 

As  we  neared  the  summit,  one  of  the  guides  fell 
down,  bleeding  at  the  mouth  and  senseless.  One  of  the 
gentlemen  forced  some  brandy  down  his  throat,  when  he 
sat  up  and  feebly  beckoned  us  to  go  on. 

Ten  minutes  more  of  hard  climbing  and  five  Saxons 
stuck  their  pikes  in  the  summit  and  stood  there 
together,  five  or  six  feet  higher  than  the  highest  moun 
tain  in  all  that  mountainous  region  of  North  America. 

The  wind  blew  hard,  and  the  little  woolly  dog  lay 
down  and  curled  up  in  a  knot,  for  fear  lest  he  should  be 
blown  away.  He  did  not  bark  or  take  any  kind  of  de 
light  now.  The  fact  is,  he  did  not  like  it  at  all,  and 
was  pretty  badly  frightened.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  he 


IN   THE   LAND    OF   CLOUDS.  101 

was  quietly  making  up  his  mind  that,  if  lie  ever  got 
back  to  that  little  basket  with  its  blue  ribbons  about  the 
borders  and  the  cosey  little  bed  inside,  he  would  be  willing 
to  take  a  nap  and  stay  with  the  lonesome  little  cripple. 

The  ladies'  lips  and  noses  were  blue  with  the  cold,  and 
their  hair  was  making  all  kinds  of  banners  and  streamers 
in  the  biting  wind.  The  guides  seemed  dull  and  indif 
ferent  to  everything.  They  lay  flat  down  a  few  feet  from 
the  summit,  pointing  out  the  highest  place  to  us,  and  took 
no  interest  in  any  thing  further,  not  even  in  their  compan 
ion,  whom  we  could  see  doubled  up  a  little  way  below 
on  the  steep  side  of  the  snow. 

We  men  moved  on  down  over  the  summit  on  the  Co 
lumbia  side  a  few  yards,  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  glimpse 
of  the  great  river  which  we  knew  rolled  almost  under 
us.  But  the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  one  mass  of 
clouds  on  that  side  ;  and  we  hastened  back  to  the  ladies, 
resolved  to  now  descend  as  soon  as  possible. 

One  of  the  ladies,  meantime,  had  gone  down  to  the 
guides  and  got  a  little  bundle,  consisting  of  a  British  and 
an  American  flag  and  a  Bible,  with  all  our  names  in  it. 
And  the  two  were  now  trying  to  fasten  the  flags  on  a 
small  iron  pipe.  But  the  wind,  which  had  been  getting 
stronger  every  minute  since  we  came,  was  now  so  furious 
that  we  felt  it  was  perilous  to  keep  the  ladies  longer  on 
the  summit.  So  one  of  our  party  started  with  them 
down  the  mountain,  while  we  other  two  took  charge  of 
the  tokens  of  our  achievement,  which  we  hoped  to  leave 
here  to  tell  others  who  might  come  that  we  had  been 
before  them. 

Flutter  !  flutter  !  flap  !  snap  !  phew  !  Away  went 
the  British  and  American  flags  together.  And  before 
we  knew  it,  the  Bible,  now  lying  on  the  snow,  blew  open 
and  started  after  them.  The  gallant  Briton  at  my  side 


102  MKMORIE    AND    RIME. 

threw  out  his  long  leg  and  tried  to  stop  its  flight  with 
his  foot.  But  it  bounded  over  the  snow  like  a  rabbit, 
and  was  gone. 

The  little  dog  lying  there  on  his  breast  was  terribly 
tempted  to  start  after  it,  and  if  he  had,  there  would  have 
been  no  further  interest  in  this  sketch.  But  he  seemed 
to  have  lots  of  sense,  and  lay  perfectly  still  till  the  last 
one  of  us  started  down  the  mountain.  Then  he  bounded 
up  and  on  down  after  us,  and  his  joy  seemed  without 
limit. 

As  we  hastily  descended,  we  found  the  stricken  guide 
already  on  his  feet  and  ready  to  lead  in  the  descent. 
The  ladies,  too,  had  thawed  out  a  little,  and  did  not 
look  so  blue. 

We  began  to  talk  too,  now,  and  to  congratulate  our 
selves  and  each  other  on  the  success  of  our  enterprise. 
We  were  in  splendid  spirits,  and  the  matchless  scenery 
before  us  filled  us  with  exultation. 

The  guides,  however,  cautioned  us  at  every  step  as  we 
neared  the  holes,  and  all  held  stoutly  on  to  the  rope. 
The  little  clog  leaped  ahead  over  the  hard  snow,  and 
seemed  the  happiest  of  all  the  happy  party.  He  ad 
vanced  down  the  mountain  backward.  That  is,  he 
would  somehow  leap  downward  tail  first,  looking  all  the 
time  in  our  faces — looking  up  with  his  red  mouth  open, 
and  his  white,  fat  little  body  bounding  like  a  rubber  ball 
over  the  snow.  Suddenly  the  head  guide  cried  out  in 
terror.  The  dog  had  disappeared  ! 

.  We  all  looked  at  each  other,  horror  on  every  face. 
We  were  on  the  edge  of  a  fissure,  and  the  dog  had  been 
swallowed  up.  Whose  turn  next  ? 

The  wind  did  not  blow  here,  for  we  had  descended 
very  fast  and  were  now  not  far  from  the  timber  line. 
We  had  all  driven  our  pikes  hard  in  the  snow  and  fallen 


IN    THE    LAND    OF   CLOUDS.  103 

on  our  knees,  so  as  to  be  more  certain  of  our  hold,  and 
were  silent  as  the  dead.     Hark  ! 

Away  down,  deep  in  the  chasm,  almost  under  us  some 
where,  we  heard  the  poor  dog  calling  for  help.  After  a 
while,  one  of  the  guides  answered  him.  The  dog  called 
back,  so  far  off,  so  pitiful  !  This  was  repeated  two  or 
three  times.  But  as  the  little  brute  seemed  swallowed  up 
forever,  and  as  we  lay  there  shivering  on  the  brink  and 
could  not  help  him  out,  we  obeyed  the  first  law  of  na 
ture,  and  cautiously  crept  back  and  around  the  ugly 
gorge.  Soon  we  were  once  more  safe  with  our  horses, 
and  drinking  coffee  by  the  warm  fire  as  before. 

We  reached  the  city  without  further  accident.  But 
the  very  first  thing  the  little  cripple  did  on  our  return 
was  to  lift  her  pale  face  from  her  crutch  and  eagerly  in 
quire  for  her  dog.  No  one  could  answer.  The  parents 
exchanged  glances.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  as  the 
child  still  entreated  for  her  pet,  they  seemed  to  realize 
their  loss.  They  refused  to  tell  her  what  had  become  of 
the  dog  at  first.  But,  little  by  little,  as  we  sat  at  dinner 
together,  she  got  the  whole  truth.  Then  she  left  the 
table,  crying  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

There  was  no  dinner  that  day  for  any  of  us,  after  that. 
The  father  had  strong,  fresh  horses  brought,  and  on  the 
next  day  we  men,  with  the  guides,  set  out  to  find  the 
dog.  At  the  last  moment,  as  we  mounted  and  were  rid 
ing  away,  the  child  brought  her  little  dog's  basket,  with 
its  blue  ribbons  and  its  soft  bed.  For,  as  we  assured 
her  the  dog  would  be  found,  she  said  he  would  be  cold 
and  sleepy,  and  so  we  should  take  his  bed  along. 

On  the  first  day  we  came  to  the  chasm  in  the  snow 
from  the  lower  side.  But  had  the  dog  not  been  drown 
ed  ?  Had  he  not  perished  from  cold  and  hunger  ?  We 
had  brought  a  sort  of  trap— in  fact,  it  was  a  large  kind 


104  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

of  rat-trap.  This  we  baited  with  a  piece  of  roasted  meat 
on  the  trigger.  Would  not  the  hungry  little  fellow 
enter  the  trap,  tug  at  the  bait,  throw  the  trap,  get 
caught  and  so  be  drawn  up  to  the  light,  if  still  alive  ? 
We  all  heartily  hoped  so,  at  least. 

Some  of  the  shelving  snow  broke  off  and  fell  as  we  let 
the  rope  slide  down  with  the  trap.  Then  for  the  first 
time  we  heard  the  little  rascal  yelp. 

I  never  saw  a  man  so  delighted  as  was  that  usually 
stolid  and  impassive  Englishman.  He  could  not  stand 
still,  but,  handing  the  rope  to  his  friend,  he  danced 
about,  and  shouted,  and  whistled,  and  sang  to  the  dog 
away  down  there  in  his  dark,  ugly  pit. 

The  dog  answered  back  feebly.  It  was  evident  he 
was  not  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Perhaps  he  was  too  feeble 
to  even  enter  the  trap.  Anyway,  he  did  not  enter  it. 

We  drew  it  up  time  and  again,  but  no  sign  of  the 
dog.  The  stout  Englishman  prepared  himself  to  de 
scend  the  pit.  But  when  the  guide  explained  the  dan 
ger  of  the  whole  side  shelving  off,  and  imperilling  the 
lives  of  others,  as  well  as  his  own  life,  that  last  hope  wras 
abandoned. 

The  father  of  the  little  cripple,  after  all  was  packed  up 
and  ready  for  the  return,  picked  up  the  basket  with  the 
blue  ribbons  and  soft  bed  inside.  He  looked  at  it  sadly. 
Tears  were  in  his  eyes.  Should  he  take  the  basket  back  ? 
The  sight  of  it  would  only  make  the  little  cripple  more 
sad.  I  could  read  all  this  in  his  face  as  he  stood  there 
irresolute,  with  the  basket  in  his  hand  and  tears  stream 
ing  down  his  face.  lie  at  length  made  a  motion  as  if 
to  throw  the  little  basket,  with  its  blue  ribbons  and  soft 
bed  inside,  down  into  the  pit  with  the  dog. 

"  No,  we  will  let  him  have  his  little  bed  to  die  in 
in  good  shape.  Here,  fasten  this  on  a  rope,  and  lower  it 


IN   THE   LAND    OF    CLOUDS.  105 

down  there  where  you  last  heard  him  cry,"  said  the 
kind-hearted  Englishman. 

In  a  few  moments  one  of  the  guides  had  unloosened  a 
rope  which  he  had  packed  up  to  take  back  ;  and  the 
basket  was  soon  being  lowered  into  the  dark  pit,  over 
the  hanging  wall  of  snow. 

The  dog  began  to  whimper,  to  whine,  then  to  bark  as 
he  had  not  barked  that  day. 

As  the  basket  struck  the  bottom  it  was  caught  as  a 
fish-line  is  caught,  and  the  rope  almost  jerked  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  guide. 

The  father  of  the  little  cripple  clutched  the  rope  from 
the  guide,  and  drew  it  up  hand  over  hand  as  fast  as  possi 
ble.  Then  the  bright  black  eyes  of  the  dog  danced  and 
laughed  at  him  as  he  jerked  the  basket  up  over  the 
treacherous  wall  of  snow. 

The  poor  shivering  little  fellow  would  not  leave  the 
basket.  There  he  lay  all  the  time  as  we  hurried  on 
down  and  mounted  horse.  The  happy  Englishman  car 
ried  it  back  to  the  city  on  his  arm.  And  he  carried  it 
carefully,  too,  as  if  it  had  been  a  basket  of  eggs  and  he 
on  his  way  to  market. 

And  the  little  girl  ?  Well,  now,  it  was  worth  all  the 
work  and  bother  we  had  to  see  her  happy  face  as  she 
came  hobbling  out  on  her  crutch  to  take  the  little  basket, 
with  its  blue  border  and  the  dog  curled  up  in  his  bed  in 
side. 


MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

ir. 

AN  OLD  OREGONIAN  IN  THE  SNOW. 

The  high-born  snow  is  on  the  hills  ; 

The  snow  is  on  the  level  lands  ; 
The  snow  arrests  the  hast'ning  rills  : 

The  snow  enshrouds  their  icy  hands. 
And  east  or  west,  or  high  or  low, 
There  gleams  one  shining  sheen  of  snow. 

I  WAS  once,  when  riding  express,  "  snowed  under"  with 
a  famous  old  pioneer  in  the  great  canon  that  splits  Cainas 
Prairie  in  two  and  breaks  the  monotony  of  its  vast  levels. 

A  wild,  unpeopled  and  unknown  land  it  was  then,  but 
it  has  since  been  made  immortal  by  the  unavailing  bat 
tles  of  Chief  Joseph  for  the  graves  of  his  fathers. 

Joe  Meek  !  The  many  books  about  him  tell  you  he 
\vas  a  savage,  buckskinned  delegate  to  Congress  from 
the  unorganized  territory  of  Oregon,  who  lived  with  the 
Indians.  These  statements  are  almost  all  untrue.  His 
was  a  plain,  pastoral  nature,  and  he  shunned  strife  and 
notoriety.  He  had  none  of  Kit  Carson's  dash  about 
him,  none  of  Davy  Crockett's  daring,  nor  had  he  Fre 
mont's  culture  and  capacity  for  putting  himself  well  be 
fore  the  world  ;  yet  he  ranked  all  these  men  both  in 
the  priority  and  the  peril  of  his  enterprises. 

Indeed,  before  the  chiefest  of  them  was  really  heard 
of,  he  had  called  the  people  of  the  far  Northwest 
together  under  the  great  pines  by  the  sounding  Oregon, 
and  made  solemn  protest  against  the  pretensions  of 
England  to  that  region.  These  settlers  sent  this  man 
over  the  plains  alone,  a  journey  of  more  than  half  a 
year,  to  beg  the  President  that  they  might  be  made  or 


AX   OLD   OREGON! AX    IX    THE   SXOW.  107 

remain  a  portion  of  the  United  States  while  most  of  the 
now  famous  mountaineers  were  yet  at  their  mothers 
knee.  I  know  no  figure  in  our  history  that  approaches 
his  in  grandeur  except  that  of  President  Houston,  of  the 
Lone  Star  Republic.  And  yet  you  search  in  vain  for 
his  name  among  those  who  sat  in  our  Capitol  in  those 
early  days.  Some  say  he  arrived  at  Washington  when 
Congress  was  not  in  session,  and  so  did  not  present  his 
credentials.  Others  say  that  he  lost  his  papers  on  the 
way  in  one  of  his  perilous  passages  of  a  stream.  And 
then  again  I  am  told  that  he  never  had  any  credentials 
to  present  ;  that  the  territory  had  no  official  existence  at 
that  time,  and  as  Congress  had  not  then  become  an 
adept  in  coining  States  and  Territories,  the  pioneers  of  the 
Oregon  River  gave  him  no  authority  to  appear  in  Con 
gress,  but  that  his  mission  was  entirely  with  the  Presi 
dent. 

But  the  spectacle  of  this  man  setting  out  in  mid-win 
ter  to  ride  alone  over  an  untracked  distance  of  three 
thousand  miles,  the  loyalty  of  this  people,  their  peril 
from  savages,  as  well  as  the  cupidity  of  Great  Britain,  I 
count  one  of  the  finest  on  the  page  of  pioneer  history. 

I  suspect  that  his  mission  was  fruitful  of  little,  for  he 
was,  as  new  people  came  pouring  in,  quietly  relegated 
to  the  background,  and  never  afterward  came  conspicu 
ously  forward,  save  as  an  occasional  leader  in  the  wars 
against  the  Indians.  But  the  undertaking  and  the  ac 
complishment  of  this  terrible  journey  alone  oui^ht  To 
keep  his  memory  green  forever.  And,  indeed,  had  fate 
placed  him  in  any  other  spot  than  isolated  Oregon,  he 
surely  now  would  not  be  so  nearly  forgotten. 

When  gold  was  discovered  in  Idaho — or  Idahlio,  an  In 
dian  word  meaning,  in  a  broad  sense,  mountain  of  light — 
Joe  Meek,  now  an  old  man,  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 


108  MEMORIE   AND    KIME. 

tion  to  leave  his  home  in  the  woods  of  Oregon  and  again 
brave  the  plains. 

But  he  was  no  longer  in  any  great  sense  a  conspicuous 
figure.  He,  so  far  from  being  a  leader,  was  even 
laughed  at  by  his  own  people,  the  Oregomans,  the  new, 
young  people  who  had  journeyed  into  the  country  after 
his  work  had  been  done — the  old  story  of  the  ingratitude 
of  republics.  And  if  he  was  laughed  at  by  the  long 
haired,  lank  and  blanketed  Oregonian,  he  was  despised 
by  the  quick,  trim,  sharp  and  energetic  Californian  who 
had  now  overrun  Oregon  on  his  way  to  the  new  Eldorado. 

I  wonder  if  the  world  vvould  believe  the  half  that 
could  be  written  of  the  coarseness,  the  lawlessness  of 
these  unorganized  armies  that  surged  up  and  down  the 
Pacific  coast  in  search  of  gold  a  quarter  of  a  century 
ago  ?  I  know  of  nothing  like  these  invasions  in  history 
since  the  days  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals. 

Two  wild  and  strong  streams  of  humanity,  one  from 
Oregon  and  the  other  from  California,  had  flowed  on  in- 
harmoniously,  tuinultuously,  together  on  their  way  to 
the  mines.  On  Camas  Prairie  winter  swept  suddenly 
over  them,  and  there,  down  in  the  deep  cafion  that  deft 
the  wide  and  wintry  valley  through  the  middle,  this 
stream  of  life  stopped,  as  a  river  that  is  frozen. 

A  hundred  men,  trying  to  escape  the  "  blizzard," 
tumbled  headlong  into  the  canon  together,  and  took  shel 
ter  there  as  best  they  could  beside  the  great  basalt  that 
had  tumbled  from  the  high,  steep  cliffs  of  the  cafion. 
They  crept  under  the  crags,  anywhere  to  escape  the 
bitter  cold. 

And  how  the  Californian  did  despise  the  Oregonian  ! 
He  named  him  the  "webfoof  because  his  feet  were 
moccasined  and  he  came  from  the  land  of  clouds  and 
rain.  The  bitter  enmity  and  the  bad  blood  of  Germany 


AN    OLD    OREOOXIAX    IN'    THE    SNO\V.  109 

and  France  were  here  displayed  in  epitome  and  in  the 
worst  form.  A  wonder,  indeed,  if  there  would  not  he 
some  sort  of  tragedy  played  here  before  the  storm  was 
over. 

The  Oregonians  wore  long  hair  at  that  date.  A  pair 
of  leggings  and  a  blanket,  with  his  head  thrust  through  a 
hole  in  the  centre,  made  his  chief  raiment.  A  tall, 
peaked  hat,  with  a  band  about  it  something  like  the 
brigand  of  the  stage,  crowned  his  long,  straight,  and 
stringy  hair.  Sometimes  he  wore  an  old  slouch  hat  ;  he 
was  rarely  without  the  blanket  ;  he  was  never  without 
the  leggings. 

The  Calif ornian  wore  the  traditional  red  shirt  in  that 
day,  with  rarely  an  exception.  He  always  wore  a  pistol, 
often  two  pistols,  in  the  great  leather  belt,  and  a  bowie- 
knife.  He  generally  wore  duck  pantaloons,  tucked  in 
side  of  his  great  long-legged  leather  boots.  If  he  was 
"  on  the  shoot,"  or  "  come  from  the  shoulder,"  a  little 
investigation  would  in  many  cases  disclose  an  extra  pis 
tol  or  two  tucked  down  deep  in  these  boots.  And  even 
whiskey  bottles  have  been  known  to  nestle  there.  He 
rarely  wore  a  coat.  The  coat  interfered  with  his  locomo 
tion,  and  he  despised  it.  If  he  was  cold  he  put  on  another 
shirt.  And  how  he  would  howl  at  the  long,  lean,  and 
silent  Oregonian  as  he  moved  about  in  his  moccasins  and 
leggings,  with  his  blanket  tight  about  him  and  his  hands 
quite  hidden. 

"  Hello,  webfoot,"  cried  the  Calif  ornian  leader  to  old 
Joe  Meek  one  day,  tc  where' s  your  hands  ?  Come,  show 
us  your  hands  !  Are  you  heeled  ?'' 

"  Try  me  and  see  !" 

The  blanket  flew  back,  two  hands  shot  forward,  and 
the  garrulous  and  meddlesome  Calif  ornian  let  the  "  web- 
foot"  go,  for  he  was  "  heeled." 


110  MEMOKIE    AKD    RIME. 

We  had  but  little  wood  liere,  and  that  was  of  the 
worst  quality — willow — green  and  frozen.  The  little 
river  gurgled  and  called  plaintively  for  the  first  day  or 
two  as  it  struggled  on  and  ground  against  its  icy  banks. 
But  soon  its  lips  were  sealed,  and  the  snow  came  down 
and  covered  the  silent  and  dead  waters  as  with  a  shroud. 

The  day  after  the  little  tilt  between  the  California!! 
leader  and  quiet  old  Joe  Meek,  the  Calif ornians  took 
occasion  to  walk  up  and  down  before  his  camp,  and  talk 
very  loud  and  behave  in  a  very  insulting  manner.  The 
canon  was  all  on  tiptoe.  The  men  began  to  forget  for  a 
moment  their  miseries  in  the  all-absorbing  topic,  the 
corning  fight. 

The  blizzard  only  increased  in  terror.  The  mules  and 
horses  were  freezing  to  death  in  their  tracks  on  the 
snowy  plateau  above. 

It  was  terrible,  pitiful.  Death  was  imminent  for  both 
man  and  beast.  The  Californians  outnumbered  the  Ore- 
gonians  ten  to  one.  They  had  secured  the  only  real 
shelter  from  the  storm,  a  sort  of  cavern  under  the  over 
hanging  basaltic  rocks,  over  which  the  snowy  cyclone 
swept  and  left  hanging  huge  masses  of  snow.  The  Cali 
fornians  were  packed  away  like  sardines,  talking  of  the 
coming  battle  and  firing  the  heart  of  their  leader  with 
hatred  of  the  quiet  old  Oregonian,  who,  with  his  Indian 
sons,  swung  their  half  frozen  arms  or  walked  up  and 
down  in  the  vain  effort  to  keep  warm. 

Suddenly  the  California!!  came  up  to  one  of  the 
Indian  boys  and  slapped  him  in  his  face.  There  was  a 
shout  from  the  cave.  The  old  man  only  turned,  threw 
back  his  blanket,  tapped  a  pistol,  pointed  up  to  the  pla 
teau,  and  said  : 

"Them!     Sunrise!     Thar!" 

The  Califoniian   was  startled.     He   could  not  say  a 


AN    OLD    OREGOXIAX    IX    THE    SXOW.  Ill 

single  word.  He  only  nodded  assent,  and  went  back  to 
bis  cave  and  bis  crowd.  Never  bad  duel  been  arranged 
so  suddenly.  He  told  bis  men,  and  they  were  wild, 
furious.  A  general  battle  was  imminent. 

Let  us  look  at  tbese  silent,  lean  and  despised  Oregon- 
iansin  their  blankets.  Comely  they  wrere  not,  nor  grace 
ful.  They  were  not  well  read,  nor  bad  the  eyes  of  the 
world  been  upon  them,  as  on  the  Californians.  But  be 
it  remembered  that  away  back  before  California  was  at 
all  known  these  Oregonians  had  met  under  the  pines,  and 
most  emphatically,  as  well  as  ungrammatically,  proclaimed 
that  they  were  a  part  of  the  United  States,  and  not  of 
England.  They  had  declared  war  against  aggressive 
tribes,  had  raised  an  army,  maintained  it  in  the  field, 
and  finally  had  coined  their  own  money  out  of  their  own 
gold,  paid  off  that  army,  and  proclaimed  peace,  all  on 
their  own  account.  Their  coin  was  pure  gold — not  a 
particle  of  alloy.  The  beaver  on  the  one  side  of  their 
crude  coin  showed  the  quiet  industry  of  her  pastoral 
people.  The  sheaf  of  wheat  on  the  other  side  showed 
that  plenty  should  reward  the  husbandman.  People  like 
that  are  not  to  be  despised. 

Against  this  record  the  Californian  had  little  to  ex 
hibit,  lie  had  washed  down  hills  and  led  rivers  over  the 
mountains  ;  he  had  contributed  much  to  the  metallic 
currency  of  the  world,  but  he  bad  clone  little  else. 

The  storm  went  down  with  the  sun,  and  now  bow 
bitter  cold  !  The  moon  hung  high  and  clear  right  over 
head.  The  stars  stood  out  and  sparkled  in  the  frost-like 
fire.  The  keen,  cold  wind  swept  the  plain  above  and 
threatened  to  fill  the  canon  with  snow.  Wolves,  that 
had  eaten  only  the  dead  horses  up  to  this  time,  now 
began  to  devour  the  weak  and  dying  ones.  There  were 
enough  wolves  gathering  about  us,  howling,  fighting, 


112  MEMORIE    AXD    RIME. 

devouring  our  horses,  to  attack  and  eat  us  where  we 
stood.  But  still  the  fight  must  go  on.  The  deadly 
hatred  must  find  some  expression.  Fortunate  if  it 
should  end  with  this  deadly  duel  just  before  us. 

Clouds  began  to  drive  over  the  moon  at  midnight  and 
stream  away  over  toward  Idaho  to  the  east.  The  stars 
went  out,  as  if  the  fierce  wind  had  blown  out  the  myriad 
lights  of  heaven.  Then  the  snow  began  to  fall  again, 
thick  and  fast,  massive,  as  the  sombre  Oregonians  sat 
about  their  fire  and  talked  of  the  coming  duel.  The 
group  grew  white  as  huddled  flocks  of  sheep.  Now  and 
then  a  man  would  get  up  and  shake  himself,  and  the 
snow  would  slide  off  his  shoulders  in  great  avalanches. 
The  fire  began  to  perish  under  this  incessant,  unceasing 
dropping  of  snow.  The  snow  simply  possessed  the 
world.  The  fire  died  out.  It  was  dark,  with  a  wild,  a 
deadly  darkness.  They  could  not  see  each  other's  faces. 
When  a  man  spoke  it  was  as  if  some  one  called  from  deep 
down  in  a  wrell.  They  groped  about,  feeling  for  each 
other.  The  Californians  slept  tranquilly  and  selfishly 
on  in  their  cavern. 

Snow  above  and  snow  below  !  The  wolves  howling 
from  the  hill.  Snow  that  buried  you,  that  lay  on  your 
shoulders  like  a  burden,  that  loaded  you  down,  that 
fastened  upon  you  as  if  it  had  life  and  sense,  and  like  a 
ghost  that  would  never  go  away. 

With  the  coming  morning  there  came  a  sense  of 
change.  It  was  warm,  warmer,  sultry.  The  Chinook 
wind  !  But  it  was  not  light.  There  was  only  a  dim, 
ghastly  something  in  the  air — the  ghost  of  a  dead  day, 
and  snow  and  snow  and  snow.  Nothing  but  silence  and 
snow  ! 

I  stop  here  as  I  write,  and  wonder  if  any  one  east  of 
the  Eocky  Mountains  knows  what  the  "  Chinook1'  wind 


AX   OLD    OREGONIAN   IN   THE   SNO\V.  113 

is  ?  One  writes  at  a  disad  vantage  Jiere.  But  the  world  is 
learning.  Ten  years  ago  it  would  not  have  known  what 
a  "  blizzard"  or  a  "  cyclone"  meant.  It  knows  now. 

Well,  this  Chinook  wind  is  a  hot  cyclone  that  leaps  up 
from  the  Gnlf  of  California,  caroms  from  mountain- top 
to  mountain-top  toward  the  north,  till  it  suddenly  and 
savagely  takes  possession  of  the  coldest  and  bleakest 
spot  on  the  continent.  It  comes  when  the  cold  reaches 
a  climax.  This  hot  Chinook  wind  is  born  of  the  freez 
ing  blizzard.  It  is  the  one  thing  that  makes  this  vast 
Korth-west  habitable.  Stick  a  pin  here  and  remember. 
This  Chinook  wind  is  the  most  remarkable  and  phenom 
enal  thing  in  nature. 

The  Oregonians  threw  back  their  blankets,  stood  erect, 
and  breathed  free  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  deadly 
days.  Puddles  of  water  began  to  form  at  their  feet. 
Little  rivulets  began  to  seek  the  frozen  river  in  the 
canon.  The  snow  began  to  slip  and  slump  in  avalanches 
down  the  steep  sides  of  the  mountains.  The  Indian 
boys  tightened  their  moccasins,  and  with  the  first  sign  of 
breaking  day  hurried  away  over  the  hill,  pistols  in  hand, 
to  look  after  their  horses.  The  old  pioneer  calmly  wait 
ed  for  sunrise.  lie  stood  alone  by  the  dead  firebrands. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  great,  dull  shock.  Thud  !  An 
avalanche  !  The  whole  mountain  side  of  snow  had  slid 
into  the  canon  and  carried  with  it  the  overhanging 
masses  above  the  cavern. 

The  swelling  river,  thus  suddenly  brought  to  a  stand 
still,  began  to  plunge  and  fret  and  foam  at  his  very  feet. 
The  Indian  boys  returned,  and  began  to  move  their 
effects  out  of  the  canon.  They  dropped  their  loads  at 
the  sound  of  a  second  avalanche  which  seemed  to  close 
the  cavern,  and  looked  at  each  other  in  the  gray  dawn. 
They  were  glad  ;  wild  with  delight.  They  chuckled  at 


114  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

first ;  and  then  a  yell — such  a  yell  of  pure  satisfaction 
was  never  heard  before. 

Their  father  lifted  his  head,  looked  at  them  hard,  and 
then  plucking  me  after  him,  hurried  clown  to  the  cav 
ern's  mouth. 

The  Calif ornians  were  on  their  feet,  falling  over  each 
other,  dazed,  confused,  cursing,  howling.  The  mouth 
of  the  cave  was  so  closed  by  the  snow  that  one  had  to 
stoop  to  enter. 

They  had  thrown  some  pitch  on  the  embers,  and  as  it 
blazed  up  they  stared  at  the  apparition  of  the  old  man, 
who  stood  there  in  their  midst,  in  their  power,  and  almost 
alone.  A  little  white  rabbit,  driven  in  by  the  swelling 
water,  came  huddling  at  his  feet.  "  What  have  you 
come  in  here  for  ?"  cried  the  leader,  clutching  a  pistol. 

"  To  save  you." 

"  "What  !"  And  the  pistol  was  raised  to  a  level. 

The  old  man  did  not  heed  or  answer.  He  stooped  and 
picked  up  the  terrified  little  white  rabbit  and  held  it 
kindly,  as  you  would  hold  a  kitten.  The  men  looked  at 
each  other  and  then  out  at  the  booming  flood,  foaming 
at  the  door  of  the  cavern,  and  dashing  in  the  new  dawn. 

I  turned  and  ran  away  and  up  toward  our  camp,  for 
there  was  a  cry  of  terror  on  every  lip.  The  old  man  led 
them  at  a  run,  their  guns  in  their  hands,  their  blankets 
on  their  shoulders. 

We  reached  the  safe  eminence  where  the  Indian  boys 
had  made  our  new  camp,  and  then  old  Colonel  Joe 
Meek,  turning  to  the  California!!  leader  and  pointing  to 
the  plateau  beyond,  said  : 

"  Cap'n,  it's  sunrise." 

"  Colonel  Joe  Meek,  I  begs  your  parding.  I'm 
licked!"  cried  the  Calif  ornian,  as  he  reached  his  hand 
in  token  of  submission  and  peace. 


AT    HOME.  115 


III. 


AT    HOME. 

My  snow-topped  towers  crush  the  clouds 

And  break  the  still  abode  of  stars, 
Like  sudden  ghosts  in  snowy  shrouds, 

New  broken  through  their  earthly  bars. 

Sunny  Riclye,  Oregon,  November  11.  You  who,  hav 
ing  travelled  far  and  in  strange  seas,  come  suddenly  upon 
the  flag  of  your  country,  may  know  something  of  the 
feeling  that  possesses  the  mountaineer  as  he  nears  home 
and  gets  the  first  sight  of  the  snow-peaks  which  stand 
like  mighty  gates  around  it. 

But  I  did  not  hasten  home.  No  sister  any  more  for 
ever  on  the  earth.  No  elder  and  abler  brother  to  greet 
and  to  guide  me.  Yet  I  came  home  at  last. 

Home  !  A  little  white  house  on  a  long,  grassy  ridge, 
crowned  with  trees  that  I  had  helped  plant  ;  an  Indian 
here  and  there,  galloping  across  the  broad,  wild  lands  ; 
cattle  lazily  feeding  along  the  bottoms,  and  a  cloud  of 
snowy  lambs  frisking  about  the  farther  hill-top.  Then 
a  tall  young  man  comes  out,  and,  with  hand  lifted  to 
shade  his  eyes,  looks  down  the  lane  ;  for  the  coming  of 
a  stranger  is  an  event  here  ;  then  he  turns  inside. 
Then  a  bowed,  gentle  old  man,  with  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  only  a  little  thinner  than  ten  years  ago  ;  then  an 
old  lady,  wiping  her  glasses  on  her  apron,  only  a  little 
stouter  than  ten  years  ago.  I  leap  from  my  horse,  rush 
up  the  rose-bordered  walk,  and — home  again.  But  we 
do  not  talk  of  the  absent,  nor  seem  to  see  the  empty 
chairs  at  the  table.  ,  I  must  not  talk  of  them  here. 


116  MEMORIE   AND    KIME. 

.  .  .  We  had  built  this  little  house  together,  with  our 
own  hands,  years  and  years  ago.  Out  yonder  where  the 
orchard  is  now,  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  we 
set  the  first  ploughshare  in  the  land  so  new  from  God's 
hand,  that  it  seemed  as  hardly  yet  completed. 

Up  on  yonder  mountain,  away  up  the  steep  Oregon 
Sierras,  we  cut  down  logs  and  rolled  them  for  miles  down 
the  grassy  slope,  and  made  the  first  rails  that  ever  crossed 
the  old  Indian  trail  running  through  this  dooryard, 
that  had  held  untroubled  possession  here  for  centuries. 

We — my  brother  and  I — were  the  first  white  persons,  I 
think,  that  ever  climbed  these  great  mountain  peaks  up 
yonder  in  the  Sierras  to  the  east,  and  toward  the  vast 
unpeopled  plains  and  wilderness.  Between  this  little 
house  here  and  these  great  mountains,  there  is  no  man's 
habitation  till  you  journey  East  a  thousand  miles  or  two. 
Down  these  great  steep  mountains,  the  grizzly  bear 
has  come  many  a  night  and  left  his  mighty  footprint 
on  the  doorsill  and  all  around  the  house  while  we  slept. 
Brother  and  I  named  some  of  these  peaks,  and  we  have 
followed  every  little  laughing  mountain  stream  from  its 
source  of  snow  to  the  lakes  and  rivers  beyond.  We  once 
cut  our  names  on  little  trim-limbed  saplings  together, 
away  out  in  the  untrodden  woods,  and  talked  of  the  time 
when  we  should  go  out  into  the  great  world,  win  fortune 
and  fame,  and  come  back,  and  together  seek  out  the  sap 
lings  that  were  broadening  into  trees.  We  trapped  the 
quail  in  the  Indian  trails  together,  and  lay  in  ambush  for 
the  deer  many  a  twilight  night  after  the  hard  day's  labor 
was  done.  All  is  over.  The  grass  grows  in  the  trail 
now.  The  quail  pipes  on  untroubled. 


AT    HOME.  117 


FAKEWELL. 

0  WHAT  climbing  plans  of  name, 
Shining,  battle-conquered  fame, 
In  that  first-felt  sense  of  pride     • 
When  he  gloried  by  my  side 

In  the  West-world,  long  ago— 
Even  so. 

All  is  won.     Yet  what  is  won  ? 
All  we  dared  to  dream  is  done. 
Yet  I  had  rather  rest  to-day 
Where  the  wide-eyed  rabbits  play  — 
Rest  as  he  rests,  lone  and  low — 
Even  so. 

Rather  walk  that  grass-grown  trail, 
Peopled  by  the  piping  quail, 
Leading  to  that  lonely  grave 
Where  forgotten  grasses  wave, 
To  mine  own  grave,  than  this  show- 
Even  so. 

Soft  and  low,  soft  and  low 
Let  Sierras'  sad  winds  blow  ; 

1  am  sad  ;  a  strange  bird  blown 
By  the  four  winds  from  mine  own  ; 
Blown  and  beaten  to  and  fro — 
Even  so. 


118  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

IV. 

THE    NEW    AND    THE    OLD. 

THE  careless  and  happy  Indians  who  used  to  ride  in  a. 
long  bright  line  up  and  down  the  land  and  past  the  door, 
laughing  at  our  little  fence  as  they  leaped  their  ponies 
over  the  few  rails  that  cost  us  so  much  labor,  now  ride 
only  on  the  ghostly  clouds.  There  is  not  one  left  now 
in  all  the  land. 

The  vast  level  valley  before  us  at  the  base  of  this  long 
and  lonely  ridge  of  flowers  and  fruit  and  sunny  water, 
is  a  waving  wheatfield  now,  and  houses,  little  palaces  of 
peace  and  refinement,  even  of  splendor,  dot  the  land  as 
thick  as  stars  in  heaven  at  night  under  the  strangely 
perfect  skies.  And  the  thousand  square  miles  of 
hyacinth  blossoms  that  made  blue  like  the  skies  this 
whole  valley  for  months  together,  have  given  place  to 
a  shield  of  gold  on  our  mother's  breast. 

And  so  the  world  goes  on.  The  wheels  of  progress 
have  rolled  over  the  graves  of  the  pioneers  and  they  are 
level  as  the  fields  of  golden  grain.  And  it  is  well. 
Even  the  marble  tombs  of  the  strange  and  strong  new 
people — paving  their  way  with  gold  where  we  came  long 
ago  with  toil  and  peril — even  these  will  be  levelled,  as 
our  graves  are  levelled,  and  give  place  to  others.  The 
world  is  round.  Let  us  look  forward.  Yet  what  is 
there  that  is  lovely,  what  is  there  to  love  in  this  new  tide 
of  people  pouring  in  upon  us  with  their  airs  and  their 
arrogance  ?  They  despise  us  and  our  primitive  ways. 
Yet  their  hard  examples  give  us  little  encouragement  to 
abandon  our  ways  and  accept  theirs. 


THE    NEW    AND    THE    OLD.  119 

Nothing  ever  happened  so  disastrous  to  the  Pacific 
States  as  the  building  of  the  Pacific  Kailroad.  It 
became  at  once  a  sort  of  syphon,  which  let  in  a  stream 
of  weak  and  worthless  people,  and  gave  the  brave  young 
States  here  all  the  vanities  and  vices  of  the  East,  with 
none  of  the  virtues. 

The  isolation  of  this  country,  the  valor,  the  virtues, 
and  the  unusual  wealth  of  the  people — all  these  gave  it 
an  elevation  and  splendor  that  no  land  in  so  short  a  time 
ever  attained.  Even  the  literature  began  to  have  a 
flavor  and  individuality  all  its  own.  But  all  this  became 
neutralized,  passed  away  and  perished,  when  men  came 
and  went  so  easily  to  and  from  the  Pacific  States. 

Monopolists  came  and  laid  hands  on  the  lands,  the 
mines,  the  cattle — indeed,  all  things  ;  and  made,  or  at 
tempted  to  make  the  men,  gray  and  grizzled  old  pio 
neers,  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water. 

Even  our  seaport,  wliicli  ought  to  be  a  great  commer 
cial  city,  is  sick  and  gloomy  and  sad.  She  looks  like  a 
ship  at  half-mast. 

It  is  not  the  immigration  of  Chinamen  ;  for  the 
Chinaman  is  not  in  any  sense  of  the  word  an  immigrant. 
lie  does  not  come  to  stay.  I  think  it  would  be  much 
better  for  the  country  if  he  did.  If  the  Chinese  could 
be  treated  so  that  their  better  class  would  come,  and 
bring  money,  and  remain,  instead  of  having  their  laborers 
only  come,  to  get  hold  of  a  few  dollars  and  then  return, 
I  think  the  Chinese  question  would  be  satisfactorily 
solved. 

But  the  real  trouble  began  in  gambling.  When  the 
railroad  brought  Wall  Street  it  brought  that  which  was 
tenfold  more  fatal  than  any  plague  ever  brought  us  from 
an  infected  port.  This  spirit  of  speculation  led  honest 
men  from  their  work  in  the  mines  to  the  cities.  Nine 


120  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

men  out  of  ten  of  them  perished — either  financially, 
morally,  or  physically.  Perhaps  the  tenth  man — the 
coarsest,  the  grossest,  and  hardest — held  out,  got  hold  of 
millions,  and  became  a  king. 

But  Oregon  proper  is  a  sort  of  nut — a  nut  with  a 
sweet,  rich  kernel,  but  also  with  a  bitter  bark  and  rind — 
through  which  you  have  to  gnaw  in  order  to  reach  the 
kernel.  Portland  is  the  bark  or  rind.  The  rich  heart 
of  the  richest  young  State  in  the  Union  lies  nearly  two 
hundred  miles  in  the  interior.  Portland  sits  at  the  sea- 
door — the  very  gates  of  the  State — taking  toll  of  him 
that  comes  and  him  that  goes.  The  Orient  has  met  the 
Occident  here  in  this  west  most  town.  One  of  these  new 
men,  a  speculator  in  town  lots  and  land,  who  was  clad  in 
a  slouch  hat  and  enormous  mud-boots-reaching  almost  to 
the  knees,  approached  me  in  Portland.  He  carried  an 
umbrella  thrust  up  under  his  arm,  while  his  two  fore 
fingers  hooked  and  wrestled  resolutely  together  as  he 
stood  before  me.  He  chewed  tobacco  violently,  and 
now  and  then  fired  a  brown  stream  far  up  and  down  the 
new  pine  sidewalk. 

"  Can't  you  put  this  city  into  poetry  ?  Yes,  you  kin. 
"What's  poetry  good  for,  if  it  can't  rize  the  price  of 
land  ?  Jist  tell  'em  we  never  had  a  shake.  Yes,  an' 
tell  'em  that  the  old  men  never  die  ;  but  jist  git  kivered 
with  moss  and  blow  away.  An'  tell  'em — yes,  tell  'em 
that  the  timber  grows  so  tall  that  it  takes  a  man  an'  two 
small  boys  to  see  to  the  top  of  a  tree  !  Yes,  an.'  tell  'em 
tha,t  we  have  to  tie  poles  to  the  cows'  horns,  to  let  the 
wrinkles  run  out  on.  Yes,  biggest  country,  richest  coun 
try  an'  dogondest  healthiest  country  this  side  of  Jericho  ! 
Yes,  it  is." 

Drip  !  drip  !  drip  !  The  rain  put  a  stop  to  the  man's 
speech.  But  he  shall  not  be  forgotten,  for  I  had 


THE    NEW    AXD    THE    OLD.  1:21 

sketched  him,  from  his  prodigious  boots  to  the  very 
tobacco-stained  beard,  long  before  he  gave  his  last  testi 
mony  of  the  health  and  wealth  of  his  chosen  home. 

Drip  !  drip  !  drip  !  Slop  !  slop  !  slop  !  incessantly 
and  all  the  time,  for  an  uninterrupted  half  a  year,  here 
in  this  mossy,  mouldy  town  of  Portland.  Rain  !  rain  ! 
rain  !  until  the  trees  grow  out  of  the  cracks  and  roofs  of 
the  houses,  and  until,  tradition  says,  Mother  Nature 
comes  to  the  aid  of  the  inhabitants  and  makes  them 
web -footed,  like  the  water-fowl.  And  even  then,  and 
in  the  face  of  all  this,  this  man  stood  up  before  me  with 
the  water  fairly  bending  his  umbrella  from  the  weight 
of  the  rain — the  rain  running  down  his  nose,  his  head, 
his  hair — and  there  he  smilingly  bowed  and  protested 
that  it  did  not  really  rain  much  in  Portland  ;  but  that 
down  about  the  mouth  of  the  Columbia,  at  Astoria,  it 
did  "  sometimes  rain  a-right  smart." 

No,  I  don't  like  the  new  money-getting  strangers. 
But  the  pioneers  here  were  giants.  Look  at  a  piece  of 
their  gold  !  These  men  fashioned  their  own  coin,  as  no 
other  part  of  this  Republic  ever  did.  They  coined  it 
out  of  pure  gold,  without  alloy,  and  stamped  on  its  face 
the  figure  of  a  beaver  and  sheaves  of  wheat,  the  signs  of 
industry  and  plenty.  Its  device  of  toil  and  harvest 
heralded  it.  Its  intrinsic  worth  and  solid  value  placed  it 
above  the  need  of  any  other  indorsement.  The  wars, 
the  trials,  and  the  achievements  of  these  men  mark  a 
shining  bit  of  history.  There  is  nothing  nobler  in  the 
annals  of  the  bravest  and  oldest  States  in  the  llnion  than 
the  achievements  of  this  Stale  of  Oregon. 


MEM  OKIE    AND    RIME. 


Y. 


FISHING   IN    OREGON    WATERS. 

An  Indian  summer-time  it  was,  long  past, 

We  lay  on  this  Columbia,  far  below 

The  stormy  waterfalls,  and  God  had  cast 

Us  heaven's  stillness.     Dreamily  and  slow 

We  drifted  as  the  light  bark  chose  to  go. 

An  Indian  girl  with  ornaments  of  shell 

Began  to  sing  ....  The  stars  may  hold  such  flow 

Of  hair,  such  eyes,  but  rarely  earth.     There  fell 

A  sweet  enchantment  that  possess'd  me  as  a  spell. 

OREGON  is  the  fisliing  man's  paradise.  But,  like  all 
other  places  that  are  so  desirable,  even  like  the  real 
Paradise,  the  places  for  trout-fishing  are  far  away  and 
hard  to  reach.  But  I  want  you  to  go  up  into  the  Ore 
gon  Sierras  with  me,  after  we  have  looked  in  npon  the 
fisheries,  or  rather  "  butcheries,"  down  about  the  sea. 

Fishing  is  carried  on  at  Astoria  and  above  there,  near 
the  mouth  of  this  noble  river,  to  an  extent  that  is  alarm 
ing,  not  to  say  revolting.  Hundreds  of  tons  are  shipped 
to  the  four  parts  of  the  world  from  here  every  year. 
And  still  the  dreadful  butchery  goes  on,  without  any 
comment  or  interference  from  either  State  or  Federal 
authorities. 

A  walk  through  one  of  the  twenty  or  more  canneries 
here  is  anything  but  desirable.  It  looks  too  much  like  a 
slaughter-yard.  Great  shining  fish  are  piled  up  like 
cord-wood  right  and  left,  waiting  the  Chinamen  and 
other  fish-choppers  to  cut  them  up  for  the  cans.  Indians 
are  coming  in  and  up  the  ladders  from  out  the  water, 
like  old  Neptune  climbing  the  side  of  the  ship  as  it 


FISHING    IN"    OREGON    WATERS.  123 

crosses  the  line.  They  are  loaded  down  with  fish,  \vliicli 
they  have  taken  with  the  spear.  This  spear  is  entirely 
of  Indian  workmanship  and  invention.  The  shaft  or 
beam  is  at  least  twenty  feet  in  length,  yet  scarcely  thick 
er  than  a  man's  finger.  It  is  made  of  fir-wood,  and  is 
very  tough  and  durable.  It  has  a  forked  or  double 
point.  These  points  are  made  of  bone.  The  bone  has 
a  hole  in  the  middle.  In  this  hole  a  string  is  fastened  at 
one  end  ;  the  other  end  of  the  string  is  attached  to  the 
shaft  or  beam  of  the  spear.  The  several  loose  inches  of 
the  string  are  wound  tightly  about  the  shaft.  The  bone 
point  of  the  spear  is  hollowed  out  at  the  heel  and  fitted 
in  and  over  the  dull  wooden  point  of  the  spear,  so  that 
when  this  is  driven  through  the  fish  the  little  bone  point 
loosens,  comes  off,  turns  crosswise  on  the  farther  side  of 
the  fish,  and  leaves  the  poor  salmon  floundering  in  the 
water,  with  a  string  through  his  body.  And,  pierced  in 
this  way,  they  never  escape.  The  Indian's  simple  de 
vice  never  breaks  or  fails  him  in  any  way.  When  he 
has  pierced  his  fish,  you  may  see  his  bright  black  eyes 
glow  just  a  little  brighter,  and  his  hands  may  tighten  a 
little  on  the  spear  ;  but  he  does  not  move  or  show  the 
least  concern.  The  salmon  bleeds  profusely  from  the 
spear- wounds  through  his  body,  and  also  from  the  mouth  ; 
but  his  struggles  are  short  and  few.  Soon  he  is  pulled 
to  the  shore,  where  the  squaw,  who  is  all  the  time 
crouched  down  by  the  side  of  her  spouse,  dispatches  him 
promptly  with  a  club,  by  blows  on  the  head.  Not  a 
word  is  spoken  all  this  time  by  either  party.  She  now 
takes  the  dead  salmon  from  off  the  points  of  the  spear, 
adjusts  and  arranges  the  bones  and  string,  that  form  the 
head  of  the  spear,  and  again  it  is  buried  in  the  deep, 
clear  water,  by  the  cunning  hand  of  her  husband,  to  wait 
the  approach  of  another  bright  and  unsuspecting  salmon. 


124  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

When  they  have  taken  a  load,  which  does  not  require 
long,  they  step  into  their  canoe,  and  either  dart  away  for 
their  lodge  up  the  river,  where  the  salmon  are  artisti 
cally  unrolled,  as  it  were  by  a  knife,  almost  as  you  would 
unroll  a  blanket,  and  so  dried  for  the  winter,  or  they 
glide  across  the  river,  and  sell  their  "  take"  of  fish  at 
the  cannery. 

The  Oregonian  is  not  a  fisherman.  "Whether  he  is  too 
practical,  too  serious,  indeed,  too  tender-hearted,  or  too 
indolent,  I  do  not  know.  I  am  firmly  persuaded,  how 
ever,  that  it  is  not  because  he  is  too-  industrious  to  fish. 
I  should  rather  say  it  is  because  he  is  surfeited  with  the 
very  abundance  of  fish  and  the  facility  with  which  fish 
are  taken  in  that  country.  For  the  seine  competes  with 
the  spear.  "  You  jist  have  to  stop  your  steamboats,  as  I 
did  about  twenty  years  ago  for  a  whole  half  a  day,  to  let 
the  salmon  pass  !  Fact,  sir  !  Swear  to  it,  sir  ! 
Couldn't  work  the  paddles,  sir,  for  half  a  day  at  a  time 
— fish  so  thick  in  the  river." 

The  old  steamboat  captain  measured  the  widfch  of  the 
pine-board  sidewalk  over  his  right  shoulder  with  a 
stream  of  tobacco  juice,  as  he  finished  saying  this,  and 
looked  at  me  as  if  he  dared  me  to  doubt  him.  But  I 
did  not  doubt  him.  Whatever  others  may  say  or  do,  I 
believe  he  was  telling  the  cold,  frozen  truth. 

"  Go  a-fishing  !  I  git  enough  of  fish,  I  do,  in  that  ere 
steamboat.  Why,  when  salmon  time  comes,  and  from 
that  time  on  till  frost  comes,  I've  got  to  keep  rny 
steamboat  right  square  in  the  middle  of  the  river  and  a 
half  a  mile  from  the  bank,  or  the  stench  of  the  dead 
salmon  will  drive  every  passenger  off  the  boat.  Fact, 
sir  !  Swear  to  it  !  Go  a-fishin'  !  Phew  !' ' 

The  grizzled  old  captain's  mustache  went  up  under 
Ills  nose  and  his  nose  went  up  into  the  air,  as  he  jerked 


FISHING    IX    OREGON    WATERS.  l\>f) 

his  cap  on  to  his  great  big  bald  bead  and  hurried  oil 
down  the  street  to  his  steamboat. 

And  now  we  will  go  to  Summit  Lake  ;  a  pleasant 
memory  I  have  of  the  summer  there,  for  we  of  Sunny 
Ridge  were  all  together  there,  a  happy,  unbroken 
family.  This  Jake  lies  immediately  on  the  summit  of 
the  mountains  that  divide  Eastern  from  Western  Oregon, 
and  is  for  the  most  part  of  the  year  buried  in  ice  and 
snow.  It  is  as  wild  and  fresh  as  an  undiscovered 
country,  for  rarely  either  white  or  red  men  disturb  the 
stillness  of  its  densely  wooded  shores.  This  lake  was 
formed  ages  ago  by  a  mountain  sliding  down  and  dam 
ming  up  the  headwaters  of  the  Willamette  River.  This 
formed  a  lake  several  miles  in  length,  nearly  a  mile  in 
width,  and  of  fearful  depth.  The  great  forest  growing 
at  the  time  of  the  avalanche  or  slide  wras  buried  in  the 
new  lake,  and  by  some  remarkable  chemical  action  of  the 
water  the  trees  were  petrified  ;  so  that,  as  you  row  your 
boat  about  the  lake,  you  look  down  into  the  singularly 
clear  waters  and  behold  a  forest  beneath  you.  Indeed, 
your  boat  sometimes  scrapes  the  tops  of  great  trees  that 
have  been  turned  to  stone,  yet  stand  erect  and  almost 
perfect  in  bough  and  branch.  By  the  side  of  this  beau 
tiful  lake,  after  two  days'  hard  ride  from  Salem,  the 
capital  of  Oregon,  we  pitched  tent.  The  horses  were 
turned  out  to  graze  in  the  lowr  grass-bottoms  that  border 
the  lake,  and  weary  as  they  were,  had  no  disposition  to 
return  to  the  great  fertile  valley  that  flashed  its  yellow 
fields  of  grain  far,  far  below.  Snow-peaks  rose  before 
us  and  to  the  right  and  left  out  of  the  black  forests,  and, 
shining  in  the  sunset,  they  seemed  to  be  almost  within 
reach.  As  the  sun  went  down,  we  drew  on  our  over 
coats  and  drew  closer  to  the  great  roaring  and  crackling 
fir-wood  fire.  One  of  our  party  had  thrown  in  a  line 


12G  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

from  the  shore,  and  another  had  taken  an  ineffectual  shot 
at  a  big  buck,  that  sniffed  the  smoke  of  our  camp  fire 
and  carne  poking  his  brown  nose  through  the  brush  to 
see,  but  for  all  that  we  ate  our  supper  without  either 
meat  or  fish. 

Early  next  morning,  even  before  the  musical  mos 
quito  was  abroad,  our  camp-iire  blazed  brightly  up  and 
the  flames  reached  for  the  fragrant  fir-boughs  above. 

O  O 

The  horses  had  retreated  to  a  dense  wood  hard  by  to 
escape  the  mosquitoes,  and  were  drowsily  dropping  their 
heads  in  their  morning  nap  as  the  day  dawned. 

Leaving  one  of  our  party  up  to  his  elbows  in  the 
dough,  we  were  determined  to  have  fish,  fowl,  or  meat 
for  breakfast,  and  we  equipped  accordingly. 

We  were  soon  wet  to  the  waist,  for  everything  was 
dripping  with  dew.  We  threw  a  line  from  the  shore 
now  and  then  ;  but  not  so  much  as  a  minnow  deigned  to 
notice  our  worms,  flies,  spoons,  or  any  of  the  many  kinds 
of  enticing  bait  we  had  to  offer. 

We  found  where  the  beaver  had  cut  down  some  small 
trees  with  their  teeth,  and  at  last  came  upon  some  fresh 
signs  of  an  Indian  tomahawk.  Then  we  found  a  deserted 
Indian  camp,  the  first  signs  of  man  we  had  seen.  Leav 
ing  this  and  hugging  a  curve  in  the  lake,  we  found  in 
the  tall  reeds  and  tules,  just  around  the  curve  of  the  lake, 
a  fine  Indian  canoe,  in  an  excellent  state  of  preservation. 
Taking  possession  of  this,  we  pushed  out  into  the  middle 
of  the  lake  and  near  to  a  little  group  of  islands.  As  the 
sun  came  pointing  his  bright,  rosy  fingers  at  us  through 
the  pines  that  hang  over  the  eastern  bank  of  the  lake,  we 
dropped  our  lines  over  the  side. 

Splash  !  Clash  !  Snap  !  The  fish  almost  leaped  into 
the  boat.  Never  were  men  more  startled  or  more  nearly 
thrown  from  a  canoe.  And  the  fish  were  game  to  the 


FISHING    IN    OREGON    WATERS.  127 

last,  and  we  landed  them  only  after  an  awkward  strug 
gle  ;  for  a  canoe  is  not  exactly  the  best  footing  for  zeal 
ous  fishermen  to  stand  upon. 

You  may  go  to  the  girdle  of  the  earth,  and  you  will 
find  no  fish  equal  to  these  here  in  this  head-lake  of  the 
"Willamette  Hiver,  in  Oregon,  either  in  beauty  or  flavor. 
They  are  the  color  of  old  gold,  spotted,  and,  indeed, 
shaped  like  brook  trout,  and  are  from  fifteen  to  twenty- 
four  inches  long.  The  meat  is  red. 

We  now  drove  our  canoe  between  two  jutting  rocks  of 
the  island,  where  we  were  in  no  danger  of  upsetting,  and 
fell  to  fishing  in  earnest.  The  great  trouble  we  found 
to  be  in  taking  the  fish  from  the  hook.  At  length  one 
party  laid  down  his  line  and  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
taking  the  fish  from  my  hook  as  the  other  drew  them 
up.  This  kept  us  both  busy. 

Leaning  over  from  the  canoe  and  letting  my  line  fall, 
I  could  see  the  petrified  forest  beneath  me.  We  were 
literally  fishing  in  the  tree-tops. 

We  were  drawing  in  fish  there  in  the  flashing  morning 
sunlight,  on  the  rosy  summit  of  the  Oregon  Sierras,  that 
looked  like  bars  of  gold  ! 

In  less  than  an  hour  the  bottom  of  our  canoe  beo-an  to 

& 

be  inconveniently  slippery,  from  the  great  number  of 
fish  taken  ;  and  we  pulled  in  for  camp. 

We  feasted  like  giants.  The  long  walk,  labor,  and 
the  clear,  cold  mountain  air  gave  us  license  for  that  ; 
and  then  the  flavor  of  these  golden  trout,  drawn  from 
the  cold  snow  water — it  was  beyond  any  kind  of  compari 
son.  We  cooked  them  in  all  ways  known  to  cook-books. 
We  baked  them  on  the  hot  rocks  of  our  camp-fire  ;  we 
buried  them  in  the  hot  embers,  enveloped  in  grass 
and  tule,  and  found  them  in  any  waythe  most  excellent 
fish  in  the  world. 


128  MEMORIE    AND    HIME. 

Nor  is  this  the  only-  kind  of  fish  to  be  taken  from  this 
lake.  There  is  also  another,  what  may  be  called  a  new 
species.  It  is  a  larger  and  still  stronger  fish,  which  keeps 
deep  down  in  the  water.  It  is  spotted  also,  but  is  not  so 
golden,  and  one  not  familiar  with  the  ways  of  fish  would 
call  it  a  trout.  I  do  not  know  what  name  learned  men 
have  given  it.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  science  knows  any 
thing  about  it  as  yet.  It  is  found  in  the  McCloud 
River,  Northern  California,  and  the  men  in  charge  of 
the  United  States  fishery  there  have  now  a  few  speci 
mens,  taken  at  great  cost  and  labor.  But  the  name  and 
nature  of  the  first -mentioned  fish  I  feel  sure  is  not  at  all 
known  to  the  world.  In  fact,  the  second-named  species 
can  only  be  found  in  few  places,  for  it  dies  if  taken 
from  the  ice-cold  water  and  placed  where  the  sun  falls 
on  the  surface  of  the  stream.  At  least,  this  is  the  ex 
perience  of  those  connected  with  the  fishery  above- 
named,  where  neither  money  nor  pains  have  been  spared 
to  preserve  this  fish.  The  only  name  I  know  for  it  is 
the  Indian  name,  "  Wy-li-di-ket,"  and  the  common 
name  of  "  Doll  Yarden,"  given  it  by  the  employes  of 
the  Government  at  the  fishery. 

We  found  the  brook  trout  here,  also,  in  the  bright 
little  streams  that  brawled  and  tumbled  into  the  singular 
lake. 


THE    NORTH    PACIFIC    OCEAN.  129 


VI. 


THE    NORTH    PACIFIC    OCEAN. 

You  hear  the  Pacific  Ocean  thundering  away  yonder 
across  the  Coast  Range  to  the  west  ?  It  is  the  wildest  sea 
in  the  world,  and  is  never  still. 

"  On  seas  full  of  wonder  and  peril, 
Blown  white  round  the  capes  of  the  North." 

All  the  time  these  melodious  lines  ring  and  rhyme  on 
in  the  ear  as  yon  climb  up  the  north  seas,  toward 
Alaska,  from  the  Bay  of  San  Francisco,  under  the  snow- 
peaks  of  Oregon.  There  is  a  line  of  great  white  foam 
tossed  up  against  the  rocky  shore  to  the  right,  even  on 
the  stillest  day,  and  you  hear  the  eternal  thunder  of 
these  stormiest  of  seas  breaking  on  the  beach  all  the 
time,  though  your  ship  may  be  many  miles  away  from 
the  wild  and  savage  shore. 

The  clearest  and  brightest  water  in  the  world  !  It  is 
blue  almost  to  blackness.  The  albatross,  found  all  the 
way  on  the  voyage  to  China,  droops  lazily  about  the 
ship,  while  the  porpoise  tumbles  in  the  water  every 
where.  The  seas  are  not  populous  with  sail,  and  you 
may  voyage  up  the  coast  all  day  and  not  sight  a  single 
vessel.  But  the  waters  are  strangely  full  of  life,  and 
some  days  you  will  see  a  hundred  \vhales  making  foun 
tains  in  this  great  untraversed  sea. 

Pacific  Ocean  !  Yes,  perhaps  it  is,  where  Balboa 
sighted  it,  from  the  peaks  of  Darien,  a  thousand  or  two 
miles  away  down  the  southern  coast.  But  here,  on  the 
coast  of  Oregon,  it  is  simply  terrible.  Xoship  dares  ap- 


130  MEMORIE    AND    KIME. 

proacli  the  shore,  for  the  land,  like  the  sea  here,  is  sav 


age  too. 


The  skeletons  of  many  ships  lie  along  this  Oregon 
coast,  and  many  dead  men  are  in  these  seas. 

Sea-bathing  is  not  to  be  thought  of  ;  the  waters  are 
too  cold  for  that  ;  but  even  were  they  of  a  tolerable 
temperature,  a  man  would  enter  them  from  the  shore  at 
the  risk  of  his  life. 

Many  years  ago  a  party  of  young  men,  intent  partly 
on  pleasure  and  partly  on  making  discoveries  on  the  then 
almost  unknown  sea-shore,  crossed  the  Coast  Range  on 
horseback,  and,  emerging  from  the  steep,  deep  woods, 
they  found  themselves  for  the  first  time  by  the  waters  of 
the  great  Pacific  Ocean.  In  a  spirit  of  banter  and  mer 
riment  they  urged  their  horses  into  the  breakers.  A 
moment  later  a  great  wave  struck  them,  overthrew  them, 
ground  them  against  the  rocky  shore,  and  they  perished. 

"Not  very  long  since  a  lady  walked  down  to  the  sea 
shore  near  Cape  Blanco,  with  some  friends.  While 
standing  on  a  ]og  of  drift-wood,  watching  the  waves,  a 
breaker  overthrew  the  party  and  the  lady  was  drowned. 

The  high,  white  headland  of  Cape  Blanco,  lifting  a 
wooded  front  boldly  toward  China,  is  the  westmost  in 
habited  limit  of  the  Great  Republic.  No  other  point  of 
land  in  the  Union,  boasting  flocks  and  cottages,  reaches 
so  far  west  as  Cape  Blanco  in  Oregon. 

For  hundreds  of  miles  here  you  sail  along  under  one 
great  black  range  of  snow-tipped  mountains,  that  sit 
with  their  feet  in  the  sea  and  their  faces  in  the  clouds. 
So  that  Oregon,  while  she  has  a  broad  sea-border,  is 
almost  as  effectually  shut  out  from  the  sea  as  if  she  lay  a 
thousand  miles  inland.  This  great  black  wall  stretches 
the  whole  length  of  Oregon.  It  is  crossed,  with  two  or 
three  exceptions,  only  by  dim  and  difficult  trails.  The 


THE    XORTII    PACIFIC    OCEAX.  131 

splendid  fertile  valleys  of  Oregon,  capable  of  feeding 
the  world,  lie  many  miles  from  the  sea,  and  the  farmer, 
as  he  swings  his  scythe  at  harvest,  may  hear  the  thunder 
of  the  sea,  and  feel  its  breezes  in  his  face  ;  but  he  can 
reach  it,  as  a  rule,  only  by  way  of  Portland  and  the  Co 
lumbia  River,  hundreds  of  miles  away. 

True,  a  thin  line  of  settlements  hug  the  coast,  cling  to 
the  rocks  and  steep  hillsides  that  slope  into  the  sea,  and 
the  men  dig  gold,  cut  timber,  and  keep  up  a  war  with 
the  wild  beasts  that  dispute  possession  with  them  ;  but 
they  make  up  but  a  small  portion  of  the  State's  popula 
tion. 

And  yet  these  hardy  settlers  deserve  something  better 
said  of  them  than  this.  Splendid  old  sea-dogs  they  are, 
most  of  them,  ^sot  slip-shod  Missourians,  with"  dogs 
and  deer-skins  under  their  feet  as  they  enter  ;  but  old 
fellows  from  Maine,  from  Massachusetts,  who,  weary  of 
the  sea,  yet  not  having  heart  to  leave  their  first  love, 
and,  finding  homes  to  be  had  for  the  taking,  have  settled 
here  to  end  their  days  in  solitude  and,  let  us  hope,  in 
plenty  and  in  peace.  It  is  pleasant  to  pick  out  their 
scattered  cottages  from  the  ship,  with  a  glass,  as  you 
pass  on  under  the  Oregon  snow-peaks  ;  to  see  their  few 
flocks  on  the  steep  mountain-sides  above,  the  dense  black 
timber  still  above,  then  rocky  limits  of  the  cloud  and 
snow-crowned  summits. 

Bachelors  they  are  chiefly,  or,  at  least,  the  old  fellows 
live  without  the  presence  of  women,  as  a  rule,  and  keep 
all  their  secrets  to  themselves.  When  we  landed  to  take 
coal,  I  ventured  to  ask  one,  Captain  Jimmy  Wilson  (they 
are  all  captains)  if  he  had  never  been  married.  He  took 
his  short-stemmed  pipe  from  between  his  teeth  ;  rocked 
himself  forward  till  his  crossed  arms  lay  across  his  knees; 
and  then,  grinning  broadly  and  almost  shutting  his  eyes, 


MEMORIE    AND    KIM  PL 


and  shutting  his  mouth  very  firmly,  as  if  he  was  afraid 
he  might  say  one  little  word,  he  only  grinned  at  me. 
Then  he  passed  his  broad  and  brawny  left  hand  over  his 
great  shock  of  gray  hair,  and  then  down  over  his  stout 
shaven  chin  ;  but  never  a  word  said  Captain  Jimmy 
Wilson  on  this  subject.  Soon  he  remarked,  as  he  jerked 
his  head  toward  the  ship,  that  he  thought  it  was  u  going 
to  blow,"  and  he  arose  and,  hitching  up  his  pants, 
sauntered  away,  with  a  great,  deep  sigh.  Then  I  knew 
perfectly  well  that  this  old  son  of  Neptune  had  a  three- 
volumed  novel  stored  away  in  that  hairy,  half-opened 
breast  of  his. 


VII. 


THE  name  of  the  great  north  western  gold-fields, 
comprising  Montana  and  Idaho,  was  originally  spelled 
I-dtth-lio,  with  the  accent  thrown  heavily  on  the  second 
syllable.  The  word  is  perhaps  of  Shoshonee  derivation, 
but  it  is  found  in  some  similar  form,  and  with  the  same 
significance,  among  all  Indians  west  of  the  Kocky  Moun 
tains.  The  Nez  Perce  Indians,  in  whose  country  the 
great  black  and  white  mountain  lies  which  first  induced 
the  white  man  to  the  use  of  this  name,  are  responsible 
for  its  application  to  the  region  of  the  far  North-West. 

The  literal  meaning  is,  "  sunrise  mountains."  Indian 
children  among  all  tribes  west  of  the  Eocky  Mountains, 


"IDAHHO."  133 

BO  far  as  I  can  learn,  use  the  word  to  signify  the  place 
where  the  sun  comes  from.  AT  here  these  tawny  people 
live  out  of  doors,  go  to  bed  at  dusk,  and  rise  with  the 
first  break  of  day,  sunrise  is  much  to  them.  The  place 
where  the  sun  comes  from  is  a  place  of  marvel  to  the 
children  ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  a  sort  of  dial-plate  to  every 
village  or  ranchrea,  and  of  consequence  to  all.  The 
Shosiionee  Indians,  the  true  Bedouins  of  the  American 
desert,  hold  the  mountain  where  the  first  burst  of  dawn 
is  discovered  in  peculiar  reverence. 

This  roving  and  treacherous  tribe  of  perfect  savages, 
stretching  from  the  Eocky  Mountains  almost  to  the 
Sierras,  having  no  real  habitation,  or  any  regard  for  the 
habitation  of  others,  but  often  invading  and  overlapping 
the  lands  of  fellow-savages,  had  some  gentle  sentiments 
about  sunrise.  "  Idahho"  with  them  was  a  sacred 
place  ;  and  they  clothed  the  Eocky  Mountains,  where 
the  sun  rose  to  them,  with  a  mystic  or  rather  a  mytho 
logical  sanctity. 

The  Shasta  Indians,  with  whom  1  spent  the  best  years 
of  my  youth,  and  whose  language  and  traditions  I  know 
entirely,  as  well  as  those  of  their  neighbors  to  the  north 
of  them,  the  Modocs,  always,  whether  in  camp  or  in 
winter  quarters,  had  an  "  Idahho,"  or  place  for  the  sun 
to  rise.  This  was  a  sort  of  Mecca  in  the  skies,  to  which 
every  Indian  lifted  his  face  involuntarily  on  rising  from 
his  rest.  1  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  the  act  had  any 
special  religion  in  it.  I  only  assert  that  it  was  always 
done,  and  done  silently,  and  almost,  if  not  entirely, 
reverently. 

Yet  it  must  be  remembered  that  this  was  a  very  prac 
tical  affair  nearly  always  and  with  all  Indians.  The  war 
path,  the  hunt,  the  journey — all  these  pursuits  entered 
almost  daily  into  the  Indian's  life,  and  of  course  the  first 


134  MEMOEIE    AXD    RIME. 

thing  to  be  thought  of  in  the  morning  was  "  Idahho." 
Was  the  day  to  open  propitiously  ?  Was  it  to  be  fair  or 
stormy  weather  for  the  work  in  hand  ? 

But  I  despair  of  impressing  the  importance  of  sunrise 
on  those  who  rarely  witness  it,  although  to  the  Indian 
it  is  everything.  And  that  is  why  every  tribe  in  the 
mountains,  wherever  it  was,  and  whatever  its  object  in 
hand,  had  a  Mount  "Idahho."  This  word,  notwith 
standing  its  beauty  and  pictorial  significance,  found  no 
place  in  our  books  till  some  twenty-one  years  ago,  and 
then  only  in  an  abbreviated  and  unmeaning  form. 

Indeed,  all  Indian  dialects,  except  the  "  Chinook,"  a 
conglomerate  published  by  the  Hudson  Bay  Company 
for  their  own  purposes,  and  adopted  by  the  missionaries, 
seem  to  have  always  been  entirely  ignored  and  unknown 
throughout  the  North  Pacific  territory.  This  "  Chinook" 
answered  all  purposes.  It  was  a  sort  of  universal  jargon, 
was  the  only  dialect  in  which  the  Bible  was  printed,  or 
that  had  a  dictionary,  and  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  dig 
beyond  it. 

And  so  it  was  that  this  worthless  and  unmeaning 
"  Chinook"  jargon  overlaid  and  buried  our  beautiful 
names  and  traditions.  They  were  left  to  perish  with  the 
perishing  people  ;  so  that  now,  instead  of  soft  and  allit 
erative  names,  with  pretty  meanings  and  traditions,  we 
have  for  the  most  sublime  mountains  to  be  seen  on  earth 
(those  of  the  Oregon  Sierras,  miscalled  the  Cascade 
Mountains)  such  outlandish  and  senseless  and  inappropri 
ate  appellations  as  Mount  Hood,  Mount  Jefferson,  Mount 
Washington,  and  Mount  Eaineer.  Changing  the  name 
of  the  Oregon  Kiver,  however,  to  that  of  the  Columbia, 
is  an  impertinence  that  can  plead  no  excuse  but  the  bad 
taste  of  those  perpetrating  the  folly.  The  mighty 
Shoshonee  Kiver,  with  its  thousand  miles  of  sand  and 


"IDAHHO.  135 

lava  beds,  is  being  changed  by  these  same  map-makers 
to  that  of  Lewis  and  Clarke  River. 

When  we  consider  the  lawless  character  of  the  roving 
Bedouins  who  once  peopled  this  region,  how  snake-like 
and  treacherous  they  were  as  they  stole  through  the 
grasses  and  left  no  sign,  surely  we  should  allow  this  sinu 
ous,  impetuous,  and  savage  river  to  bear  the  name  which 
it  would  almost  seem  nature  gave  it,  for  Shoshonee  is 
the  Indian  name  for  serpent.  How  appropriate  for  this 
river  and  its  once  dreaded  people  ! 

The  dominion  of  this  tribe  departed  with  the  discovery 
of  gold  on  a  tributary  of  the  Shoshonee  River  in  1860. 
The  thousands  who  poured  over  this  vast  country  on 
their  way  to  the  new  gold-fields  of  the  north  swept  them 
away  almost  entirely.  Up  to  this  time  they  had  only  the 
almost  helpless  and  wholly  exhausted  immigrant  to 
encounter,  with  now  and  then  a  brush  with  soldiers  sent 
out  to  avenge  some  massacre.  But  this  tribe  perished, 
as  I  have  said,  before  the  Californians,  and  to-day  it  is 
not ;  except  as  one  of  the  broken  and  dispirited  remnants 
familiar  to  the  wretched  reservations  scattered  over  the 
vast  far  West. 

Captain  Pierce,  the  discoverer  of  gold  in  the  north, 
located  "  Pierce  City"  on  the  site  of  his  discovery,  in 
the  dense  wood  away  up  in  the  wild  spurs  of  the  Bitter 
Root  Mountains,  about  fifty  miles  from  the  Shoshonee 
River.  Then  "  Orofino  City"  sprang  up.  Then  "  Elk 
City"  was  laid  out.'  But  the  "  cities"  did  not  flourish. 
Indeed,  all  these  "  cities"  were  only  laid  out  to  be 
buried.  The  gold  was  scarce  and  hard  to  get  at,  and  the 
mighty  flood  of  miners  that  had  overrun  everything  to 
reach  the  new  mines  began  to  set  back  in  a  refluent  tide. 

On  the  site  of  the  earthworks  thrown  up  by  Lewis  and 
Clarke,  who  wintered  on  the  banks  of  the  Shoshonee 


136  MEMORIE    AND    JUME. 

River  in  1803-04,  the  adventurous  miners  had  founded 
a  fourth  and  more  imposing  city,  as  they  passed  on  their 
way  to  the  mines.  This  they  called  Lewiston.  It  was 
at  the  head  of  steamboat  navigation  on  the  Shoshonee, 
and  promised  well.  I  remember  it  as  an  array  of  miles 
and  miles  of  tents  in  the  spring.  In  the  fall,  as  the  tide 
went  out,  there  were  left  only  a  few  strips  of  tattered 
canvas  flapping  in  the  wind.  Here  and  there  stood  a 
few  "  shake  shanties,"  against  which  little  pebbles  rat 
tled  in  a  perpetual  fusillade  as  they  were  driven  by  the 
winds  that  howled  down  the  swift  and  barren  Shoshonee. 

"  It  oughter  be  a  gold-bearin'  country,"  said  a  ragged 
miner,  as  he  stood  with  hands  in  pockets  shivering  on 
the  banks  of  the  desolate  river,  looking  wistfully  away 
toward  California  ;  "it  oughter  be  a  gold-bearin'  coun 
try,  'cause  it's  fit  for  nothin'  else  ;  wouldn't  even  grow 
grasshoppers." 

I  had  left  California  before  this  rush,  settled  down, 
and  been  admitted  to  the  bar  by  ex-Attorney-General 
George  H.  Williams,  then  Judge,  of  Oregon,  and  had 
now  come,  with  one  lawT-book  and  two  six-shooters,  to 
offer  my  services  in  the  capacity  of  advocate  to  the 
miners.  Law  not  being  in  demand,  I  threw  awray  my 
book,  bought  a  horse,  and  rode  express.  But  even  this 
had  to  be  abandoned,  and  I,  too,  was  being  borne  out 
with  the  receding;  tide. 

O 

Suddenly  it  began  to  be  rumored  that  farther  up  the 
Shoshonee,  and  beyond  a  great  black-white  mountain,  a 
party  of  miners  who  had  attempted  to  cross  this  ugly 
range,  and  got  lost,  had  found  gold  in  deposits  that  even 
exceeded  the  palmy  days  of  u  '49." 

Colonel  Craig,  an  old  pioneer,  who  had  married  an 
Indian  woman  and  raised  a  family  here,  proposed  to  set 
out  for  the  new  mine.  The  old  man  had  long  since, 


137 

through  bis  Indians,  heard  of  gold  in  this  black  moun 
tain,  and  he  was  ready  to  believe  this  rumor  in  all  its 
extravagance.  lie  was  rich  in  horses,  a  good  man — a 
great-brained  man,  in  fact — who  always  had  his  pockets 
full  of  papers,  reminding  one  of  Kit  Carson  in  this  re 
spect  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  his  constant  thirst  for  news 
that  drew  him  toward  the  "  expressman,"  and  made  him 
his  friend. 

I  gladly  accepted  his  offer  of  a  fresh  horse,  and  the 
privilege  of  making  one  of  his  party.  For  reasons  suffi 
cient  to  the  old  mountaineer,  we  set  out  at  night,  and 
climbed  and  crossed  Craig's  Mountain,  sparsely  set  with 
pines  and  covered  with  rich  brown  grass,  by  moonlight. 
As  we  approached  the  edge  of  Camas  Prairie,  then  a 
land  almost  unknown,  but  now  made  famous  by  the 
battle-fields  of  Chief  Joseph,  we  could  see  through  the 
open  pines  a  faint  far  light  on  the  great  black  and  white 
mountain  beyond  the  valley.  "  Idahho  !"  shouted  our 
Indian  guide  in  the  lead,  as  he  looked  back  and  pointed 
to  the  break  of  dawn  on  the  mountain  before  us.  "  That 
shall  be  the  name  of  the  new  mines/'  said  Colonel  Craig 
quietly,  as  he  rode  by  his  side. 

The  exclamation,  its  significance,  the  occasion,  and  all, 
conspired  to  excite  deep  pleasure,  for  I  had  already 
written  something  on  this  name  and  its  poetical  import, 
and  made  a  sort  of  glossary  embracing  eleven  dialects. 

Looking  over  this  little  glossary  now,  I  note  that  the 
root  of  the  exclamation  is  dah !  The  Shasta  word  is 
Pou-dah-ho!  The  Klamath  is  Num-dah-Jio !  The 
Modoc  is  Lo-dah  !  and  so  on.  Strangely  like  "  Look 
there  !"  or  "  Lo,  light  !"  is  this  exclamation,  and  with 
precisely  that  meaning. 

I  do  not  know  \vhether  this  Indian  guide  was  Nez 


138  MEMORIE    AND    KIME. 

Perce,  Shoshonee,  Cay  use,  or  from  one  of  the  many 
other  tribes  that  had  met  and  melted  into  this  half -civil 
ized  people  first  named.  Neither  can  I  say  certainly  at 
this  remote  day  whether  he  applied  the  word  "  Idahho" 
to  the  mountain  as  a  permanent  and  established  name,  or 
used  the  word  to  point  the  approach  of  dawn.  But  I  do 
know  that  this  mountain  that  had  become  famous  in  a 
night,  and  was  now  the  objective  point  of  ten  thousand 
pilgrims,  became  at  once  known  to  the  world  as  Idahho. 

Passing  by  the  Indians'  corn-fields  and  herds  of  cattle 
and  horses,  we  soon  crossed  the  Camas  Valley.  Here, 
hugging  the  ragged  base  of  the  mountain,  we  struck  the 
stormy  and  craggy  Salmon  River,  a  tributary  of  the 
Shoshonee,  and  found  ourselves  in  the  heart  of  the  civil 
ized  and  prosperous  Nez  PerceV  habitations.  Ten  miles 
of  this  tortuous  and  ragged  stream  and  our  guide  led  up 
the  steep  and  stupendous  mountain  toward  which  all  the 
prospectors  were  now  journeying.  At  first  it  was  open 
pines  and  grass,  then  stunted  fir  and  tamarack,  then 
broken  lava  and  manzanita,  then  the  summit  and  snow. 

A  slight  descent  into  a  broad  flat  basin",  dark  with  a 
dense  growth  of  spruce,  with  here  and  there  a  beautiful 
little  meadow  of  tall  marsh  grass,  and  we  were  in  the 
mines- -the  first  really  rich  gold-mines  that  had  as  yet 
ever  been  found  outside  of  California. 

"  Surely  there  is  a  vein  for  the  silver,  and  a  place  for 
gold  where  they  fine  it,"  says  the  Bible — meaning  that  the 
only  certain  place  to  look  for  gold  is  where  they  refine 
it.  Certainly  the  text  never  had  a  more  apt  illustration 
than  here  ;  for  of  all  places  for  gold  in  the  wide  world 
this  seemed  the  most  unlikely.  The  old  Calif ornian 
miners  who  came  pouring  in  after  us,  almost  before 
we  had  pitched  tent,  were  disgusted.  "  Nobody  but  a 


"IDAHHO.  139 

parcel  of  fools  would  ever  have  found  gold  here," 
said  one,  with  a  sneer  at  the  long-haired  Oregonian 
who  had  got  lost  and  found  the  new  mines.  But  the 
wheat-like  grains  of  gold  were  there,  and  in  such  heaps 
as  had  never  been  found  even  in  California  ;  and 
so  accessible — only  a  few  inches  under  the  turf  or  peat 
in  the  little  meadows  and  little  blind  gulches  here  and 
there  in  this  great  black,  bleak,  and  wintry  basin  that  had 
never  yet  been  peopled  since  it  came  fresh  from  the 
Creator's  hand. 

In  less  than  a  week  the  black  basin  was  white  with 
tents.  Our  party  located  a  "  city"  where  we  first 
pitched  tent,  with  the  express  office  for  a  nucleus.  Look 
at  your  map,  tracing  up  from  Lewiston  over  Craig's 
Mountain  and  Camas  Prairie,  and  you  will  find  "  Millers- 
burg,"  looking  as  big  on  the  map  as  any  town  in  the 
West.  Yet  it  did  not  live  even  the  winter  through.  A 
man  soon  came  with  a  family  of  daughters,  Dr.  Furber, 
an  author  of  some  note  at  the  time,  and  settled  a  half 
mile  farther  on.  My  "  city"  went  with  and  clustered 
about  the  ladies.  The  doctor  named  the  rival  "city" 
after  his  eldest  daughter,  Florence.  It  flourished  in  the 
now  falling  snow  like  a  bay,  and  was  at  one  time  the 
capital  of  the  Territory.  There  is  little  of  it  left  now, 
however,  but  the  populous  graveyard. 

And  alas  for  the  soft  Indian  name  !  The  bluff  miner, 
with  his  swift  speech  and  love  of  brevity,  soon  cut  the 
name  of  the  new  mines  down  to  "  Idao."  And  so 
when  the  new  gold-fields  widened  out  during  a  winter  of 
unexampled  hardship  and  endurance  into  "  Warren's 
Biggin's,"  "  Boise  City,"  "  Bannock  City,"  and  so  on, 
and  the  new  Territory  took  upon  itself  a  name  and  had  a 
place  on  the  map  of  the  Republic,  that  name  was  plain, 


J40  MEMORIE    AKD    RIME. 

simple,  ana  senseless  Idaho.  Should  any  one  concerned 
in  the  preservation  of  our  native  and  beautiful  names 
care  to  know  more  particularly  the  facts  here  sketched, 
let  him  address  Colonel  Craig,  of  Craig's  Mountain, 
Idaho,  a  well-read  and  the  best- informed  man  on  the 
subject  to  be  found  in  the  far  West  ;  and  he  is  the  man 
who  found  and  named  H.-dah-lio. 


She  sits  forever  in  the  sun, 

Her  <jold-ribbed  walls  half  gird  her  round  ,• 
About  her  feet  her  black  herds  run, 

The  taiony  plains  are  her  playground. 
The  air  rings  dear  as  clear  church  bell 
That  you  may  see  her,  see  her  well. 

Before  her  silver  gates  in  siege 

An  hundred  thousand  soldiers'  tents  ! 

What  valiant  loyalty  and  liege 
To  Fortune  on  her  battlements  ! 

Oh,  never  was  there  siege  of  old 

Like  this  against  her  walls  of  gold  I 

The  Crusades  knew  not  braver  Knight 
Than  these  brave  men  before  her  walls  ; 

The  noblest  in  the  old-time  fight 
Matched  not  the  humblest  here  that  falls. 

And  never  were  there  worn  such  scars 

As  these  won  in  these  nobler  wars. 

TJiese  bloodless  wars,  that  bring  not  pain  ; 

These  priceless  victories  of  Peace, 
Where  Pride  is  slain,  where  Self  is  slain, 

Wliere  Patience  hath  her  victories ; 
Where,  when  at  last  the  gates  are  down, 
You  have  not  burned,  but  built  a  town. 


IV. 
IN    COLORADO, 


I. 

THE    COL.    BILL    WILLIAMS    MINE. 

THEY  had  struck  it  at  Boulder.  The  "Col.  Bill 
Williams  Mine"  up  Boulder  Canon  was  raid  to  be  richer 
than  the  Comstock.  Calif ornians  forsook  ranches, 
mines,  and  vineyards,  and  poured  like  a  torrent  from 
the  West,  into  Denver.  At  Denver  this  tide  met  a  like 
stream  from  the  East.  These  streams  united  and  flowed 
on  together  into  Boulder  Canon. 

The  writer  was  borne  in  on  the  crest  of  this  flood 
tide  and  reached  the  famous  "  Col.  Bill  Williams  Mine" 
at  twilight,  when  the  colonel  had  gone  to  his  supper, 
and  his  men  were  busy  lighting  the  pine  torches  and 
knots  that  hung  about  the  mine,  preparatory  to  setting 
the  miners  at  work  in  the  shaft  for  the  ni^ht. 

O 

The  mine  was  situated  on  a  little  flat  in  the  great 
canon,  just  under  the  hotel  and  the  few  other  houses 
that  made  up  the  town  on  one  side  of  the  canon,  and 
the  savage  cliffs  that  looked  down  from  the  other. 

An  hour  later,  when  the  now  famous  mine  was  in 
operation,  there  were  to  be  seen  a  creaking  derrick,  with 
ropes  enough  to  rig  a  ship,  a  shaft,  with  men  passing  up 


144  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

and  down,  dripping  and  muddy,  and  talking  myste 
riously  and  wagging  their  heads  at  each  other,  as  if  clown 
there  they  had  come  upon  the  hidden  and  awful  secrets 
of  the  earth  ;  while  over  all,  the  blazing  pine  knots  shed 
a  wild  and  gorgeous  ligh  t 

Close  by  the  side  of  this  shaft  an  enterprising  red 
headed  man,  called  "  Ginger,"  had  established  a  bar  for 
the  benefit  of  the  dripping  and  mysterious  men  who 
kept  climbing  up  and  down  the  shaft.  An  awning  of 
canvas  covered  the  few  bottles  that  stood  on  the  rough 
boards  constituting  this  "  bar  ;"  and  behind  the  derrick, 
which  was  kept  busy  hoisting  rocks  and  buckets  of  earth 
from  out  the  shaft,  there  was  piled  up  as  high  as  a  man's 
head  a  ragged  wall  of  quartz  and  granite.  Through 
this  there  was  an  open  pass  or  gate-way,  by  which  peo 
ple  entered  who  wished  to  see  the  new  discovery",  the 
great  "  Col.  Bill  Williams  Mine." 

Standing  there,  and  out  a  little  from  the  light  of  the 
flaming  torches,  a  thousand  camp-fires  could  be  seen. 
The  whole  face  of  the  Rockies  seemed  to  be  illuminated. 
The  host  that  had  poured  in  from  the  four  parts  of  the 
world  were  camped  before  the  mighty  citadel  of  Fortune 
as  in  a  siege.  Looking  up  this  canon  and  on  and  up  the 
mountains  into  heaven,  it  was  difficult  to  say  where  the 
camp-fires  left  off  and  the  stars  began. 

The  men  kept  coming  up  and  going  down  this  shaft 
so  busily  that  a  stranger,  or  one  not  used  to  mines  and 
miners,  would  have  said  there  were  at  least  a  thousand 
brave  and  stalwart  men  down  there.  But  an  old  Cali- 
fornian  would  at  once  have  detected  that  there  was  some 
thing  singularly  superficial  in  this,  and,  indeed,  in  all 
the  appointments  of  the  place.  He  would  have  noticed, 
too,  that  the  men  saluted  the  barkeeper  familiarly,  and 
drank  with  suspicious  regularity. 


THE    COL.    BILL    WILLIAMS    MIXE.  145 

From  the  rocky  side  of  the  cafion  opposite  the  little 
town  you  could  sometimes  hear  the  call  of  the  coyote, 
and  the  old  trapper,  "  Rocky  Mountain  Kit,"  a  wreck 
and  a  relic  who  had  been  attracted  to  the  new  mine  by 
the  thirst  for  whiskey  rather  than  gold,  straightened  up, 
and  once  or  twice  leaned  with  his  hand  to  his  ear  to 
listen.  "  It  mout  be  wolves,  and  it  mout  be  Injuns," 
muttered  the  half-doubled  old  man  as  he  hobbled  away 
from  the  bar,  where  he  had  sandwiched  himself  in 
between  two  muddy  miners,  and  so  had  succeeded  in 
including  himself  in  the  treat. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  ripple  of  delight.  The  red 
headed  barkeeper  ran  his  two  hands  up  through  his 
flaming  hair  till  it  shot  up  like  one  of  the  pine-knots 
blazing  about  him.  The  miners  hastened  down  into  the 
mine.  Old  Rocky  Mountain  Kit  undoubted  himself,  as 
if  he  were  a  rusty  old  jack-knife,  and  smacked  his 
parched  lips.  The  pine-torches  and  pine  knots  that 
burned  on  every  hand  seemed  to  glow  and  burn  with 
brighter  flame.  Colonel  Bill  Williams  had  come  boom 
ing  through  the  narrow  rocky  pass  in  the  wall  ! 

A  magnificent  specimen  of  physical  manhood  he  was. 
Tall,  strong,  broad-breasted,  bearded  like  a  prophet, 
black-eyed,  and  altogether  impressive,  he  stood  before 
his  followers  there  the  acknowledged  king  of  the  new 
mining  camp.  He  had  a  small,  feeble,  and  unpreten 
tious  partner  with  a  stoop  in  his  shoulder,  a  squint  in  his 
eye,  and  a  crack  in  his  shrill,  piping  voice.  This  little 
man's  name  was  Doctor  Baggs.  The  doctor  seemed  to 
have  been  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  colonel  too,  for 
as  soon  as  he  made  his  appearance  he  ceased  to  seem 
longer  one  of  the  shapeless  and  dirty  rocks  that  had 
made  a  part  of  the  wall,  and  came  briskly  forward. 

The  great,  strong  arm  of  the  colonel  swooped  out  and 


140  MEMORIE    AKD    RIME. 

took  in  the  neck  of  the  little  doctor,  as  if  it  were  by 
chance,  and  with  his  broad  hat  pushed  back  from  his 
brow  he  strode,  without  a  word,  past  the  mouth  of  the 
shaft  to  the  bar.  He  leaned  against  the  rough  boards  a 
moment,  and  then  releasing  the  neck  from  his  elbow  he 
turned  with  his  back  to  the  wall.  Still  disdaining  a 
single  word,  he  made  another  gesture  with  his  arm  and 
swooped  in  every  one,  strangers  and  all,  who  stood 
within  the  light  of  the  pine  knots  and  torches  that  flamed 
behind,  before,  right  and  left,  and  above. 

When  all  had  drunk,  and  the  crowd  had  melted  away, 
the  doctor — who  was  really  a  doctor,  at  least  by  prac 
tice  and  profession — handed  his  pill-bags  to  Ginger,  and 
stood  looking  up,  respectful  and  expectant,  at  the  face 
of  the  bearded  leader,  from  under  his  glasses,  as  the 
giant  still  loafed  against  the  bar. 

A  low  chuckle  of  delight  reached  the  ears  of  the  doc 
tor  from  the  black  beard,  and  then  the  satisfied  face  of 
Colonel  Bill  Williams  beamed  above  him,  like  the  sun 
through  a  rift  of  clouds,  as  a  broad  hand  descended  and 
covered  the  narrow  shoulders  of  the  doctor  with  a  force 
that  knocked  a  cloud  of  Colorado  dust  from  his  old 
threadbare  broadcloth. 

"  Well,  Dock,  old  pard,  he's  a-comin'.  Yes,  he  is, 
a-comin'  to  buy  our  mine.  And  if  I  don't  sell  out  to 
that  old  duffer  this  time  and  see  Maine  and  Maria  again, 
and  with  a  boot-leg  full  o'  gold-dust  too,  I'm  a  Dutch 
man  !" 

"  You  seed  him,  Colonel  Bill  ?  Seed  the  old  English 
lord?" 

"  No,  no,  no  ;  I  didn't  see  him,  Dock.  I  never  seed 
a  real  live  English  lord  in  my  hull  life.  No,  but  Snagly 
went  into  the  hotel  up  thar,  and  seed  him  for  me. 
Snagly,  the  Injun  agent  ;  Ginger,  you  know  him  ;  pard 


THE    COL.   BILL    WILLIAMS    MINE,  147 

of  yours,  eli  ?  Well,  lie's  smart.  Gosh,  all  over.  But 
can't  he  talk  !  You  can't  get  a  word  in  edgeways 
where  Snagly  is.  And  can't  he  lie,  though  ;  been  a 
member  of  Congress  ;  oh,  can't  he  lie,  though  !" 

Hereupon  "  Rocky  .Mountain  Kit"  creaked  out  : 

"  And  how  do  you  know  the  old  English  lord  has 
come  to  Colorado  to  buy  a  mine  ?" 

"  How  do  I  know  he's  come  to  Colorado  to  buy  a 
mine  ?  What  else  do  these  big  bugs  come  to  Colorado 
for?  You  don't  s'pose  a  feller  comes  to  Colorado  for 
fun,  do  you  ?" 

"  Come  to  Colorado  to  buy  a  mine,  or  else  to  be  doc 
tored.  Every  human  bein'  that  comes  to  Colorado 
comes  to  buy  a  mine  or  comes  to  be  doctored  for  his 
health,  don't  he  ?"  spoke  up  the  little  doctor  sharply. 

There  was  a  pause  here,  and  the  great  leader  looked 
first  at  the  steady  stream  of  men  pouring  up  and  clown 
the  shaft  with  the  regularity  of  little  meal-buckets  in  a 
great  mill,  and  then  at  the  doorway  in  the  wall  of  rocks, 
as  if  expecting  some  one.  At  length  Ginger  said  : 

"  Got  her  salted,  Colonel  Bill  ?" 

Gayly  lifting  his  glass  and  waltzing  forward,  and  look 
ing  down  into  the  shaft,  and  then  prancing  back,  the 
colonel  answered  : 

"  Salted  ?— I  salted  her— and  then,  for  fear  I'd  forgot 
it,  I  salted  her  ag'in  !" 

Here  a  low  chuckle  of  delight  came  from  the  region 
of  the  great  black  beard,  and  the  admiring  miners 
nudged  each  other  with  their  elbows.  The  colonel  con 
tinued  :  "  Why,  I've  put  in  more  honest  labor  a-saltin' 
of  this  mine  than  I  ever  done  in  my  life  afore.  Salted  ? 
Well,  I  should  illuminate  !"  The  honest  miner  grew 
thoughtful  for  a  moment  ;  and  then,  setting  down  his 
glass,  said  slowly  :  "  I  tried  first,  you  know,  boys,  to 


148  MKMORIE    AND    RIME. 

catch  a  syndercate — a  syndercate  of  lambs  from  New 
York.  Well,  they  sent  out  an  expert.  You  all  remem 
ber  him,  boys.  An  expert  !  And  an  expert  from  a 
college  !  Never  seed  a  mine  in  his  life  afore.  Well, 
this  expert,  he  wanted  half  to  report  favor'bly.  Half  ! 
Think  of  it,  boys  !  Wanted  half  of  an  honest  miner's 
money.  I  wouldn't  give  it.  I've  got  principle,  I  have. 
You  all  know  me." 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes  !     We  all  know  you." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  vociferous  answers  and  another 
drink  ;  then  the  colonel  continued  : 

"  Yes,  I've  got  principle.  That  was  the  trouble.  I 
wouldn't  give  him  half,  on  a  p'int  of  principle,  p'int  of 
honor.  It  was  too  much.  I  offered  him  a  third." 

"  And  he  wouldn't  take  it  !"  ejaculated  the  doctor, 
as  the  honest  miner  mournfully  shook  his  head. 

"  No  !  No  !  Then  them  fellows  up  the  canon  yon 
der  offered  him  two-thirds  of  all  they  got,  and  he  took 
it.  No  principle  in  them  miners  up  thar  at  all." 

"  Ah,  principle  don't  pay  in  Colorado,  Colonel  Bill," 
sighed  the  doctor. 

"  Pay  !  I  lost  a  fortune  right  thar,  gentlemen,  on  a 
p'int  of  principle,  a  p'int  of  honor.  But  I'll  catch  'em 
this  time,  boys.  Come  up  and  drink  again,  every  one  of 
you."  Again  the  great  swooping  arm  brought  the  boys 
together  in  a  knot  at  the  rickety  bar.  "  And  you'll  all 
stand  by  me  ?"  cried  the  colonel,  as  he  shot  his  glass  in 
the  air.  They  all  nodded  assent.  "  I'll  tell  a  thing, 
and  you  swear  to  it.  Oh,  I'm  all  here  !"  he  added  in  a 
vociferous  tone. 

Again  all  assented  boisterously,  as  the  colonel  struck 
his  broad  breast  and  ended  his  speech.  Setting  down  his 
glass  and  unloosening  his  back  from  the  bar,  with  the 
eye  of  a  brave,  battle-loving  captain,  he  looked  to  see 


Till:    COL.    BILL    WILLIAMS    MIXE.  149 

that  everything  was  ready  for  action.  lie  glanced  at  the 
creaking  derrick,  at  the  perpetual  stream  of  men  passing 
up  and  down  the  shaft,  pushed  his  hat  a  little  farther 
back  from  his  brow,  turned  the  quid  of  tobacco  in  his 
cheek,  and  then  tranquilly  waited,  certain  of  victory, 
certain  that  at  last  he  was  to  sell  his  mine,  pocket  the 
money,  and  again  see  old  Maine,  Maria,  and  the  little 
ones. 

"  Shoo  !  I  thought  I  heard  some  one  a-comin',"  said 
the  doctor,  as  he  lifted  a  linger  and  leaned  forward, 
looking  toward  the  doorway.  For  a  moment  the  miners 
all  craned  their  necks  and  looked  ;  but,  as  the  expected 
visitor  did  not  appear,  Old  Kit  creaked  out  : 

"  And  how  will  you  know  him,  Colonel  Bill,  when  he 
comes  ?  A  live  lord  !  A  real  live  English  lord  !  Hie 
— all  gold  lace  down  here,  eh  ?  Jist  that  way  in  picter- 
books,  Colonel  Bill.  But  will  you  know  him  without  a 
introduction,  Colonel  Bill  ?" 

"  Know  him  ?  Why,  I'd  know  a  lord  as  far  as  I 
could  see  him.  Don't  I  know  the  'stocracy  ?  Hain't 
1  be'n  to  Boston  ?  Oh,  I'll  know  him.  Why,  I  could 
tell  a  lord  by  the  noble  look  of  his  brow  !" 

The  rickety,  drunken  old  trapper  seemed  satisfied,  and 
tottered  away,  chuckling  to  himself  as  he  jostled  through 
the  crowd. 

"  A  real  live  English  lord  !  All  lace  and  gold,  gold 
and  lace  all  up  and  down  before." 

"  Yes,  and  he'll  be  here  in  a  minute,  too  !"  cried  the 
colonel.  "  Listen  !  There  he  comes  !  Pose,  boys, 
pose  !  Look  dignified  !  Look  your  best  !  Look  your 
darned  level  best  !" 

The  miners  all  struck  imposing  attitudes,  and  the  col 
onel  shouted  out  to  old  Kit,  in  a  voice  of  thunder  : 
u  Pose,  I  tell  you  !" 


150  MEMOJUE    AND    KIME. 

But  the  old  trapper  only  paused  a  moment  in  his 
meanderings,  and  then,  tottering  helplessly  back  to  the 
colonel,  fell  laughing,  maudlin-like,  in  his  arms.  It 
looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  be  troublesome.  The  col 
onel  spun  him  about  and  again  shouted  as  he  pushed, 
wrestled,  and  dragged  him  to  the  other  side  of  the  shaft  : 

"  Now  you  stand  in  your  place,  you  old  juniper 
stump,  and  pose  !"  He  planted  him  hard,  and  again 
shouted,  as  a  stout,  dumpy  figure  darkened  the  narrow 
pass  in  the  stone  wall  :  "  Pose,  I  tell  you  !  Hang  you, 
pose  !" 

Poor  Kit  tried  to  pose,  but  could  not  stand  still. 
61  Stand  still  and  pose  !  And  don't  you  dare  to  move 
till  that  old  duffer  comes  !"  cried  the  excited  colonel. 
Then,  leaving  the  limp  man  with  his  knees  smiting 
together,  he  stepped  back  and  mounted  a  pile  of  rocks 
by  the  bar.  "  Now,  boys,  yank  out  your  specimens  and 
be  lookin'  at  'em  and  a-talkin'  about  'em,  and  a-talkin' 
about  my  mine.  Say  that  the  Col.  P>ill  Williams  Mine 
is  the  biggest  thing  in  all  Colorado.  Say  that  the  Col. 
Bill  Williams  Mine  is  a  bigger  bonanza  than  the  Com- 

OO 

stock  !" 

There  was  a  flourish  of  rocks  and  a  chorus  of  approv 
ing  voices.  The  colonel  was  hardly  in  a  more  exalted 
state  of  mind  than  his  men.  The  prospect  of  selling  a 
mine  for  half  a  million,  together  with  the  flood  of  Col 
orado  whiskey,  had  lifted  them  far  above  the  plane  of  or 
dinary  expectation.  u  The  '  Col.  Bill  Williams  Mine'  is 
a  bigger  bonanza  than  the  Comstock,"  roared  the  miners, 
as  they  rallied  around  their  chief,  and  flourished  their 
long,  ragged  arms  in  the  air. 

As  this  proceeding  was  at  its  height,  the  stout,  dumpy 
figure  at  the  gateway,  clad  in  a  very  rough,  soiled  suit 
of  gray,  advanced  down  the  narrow  stone  pass  to  the 


THE    COL.    BILL    WILLIAMS    MINE.  151 

inner  edge  of  the  wall,  and  looked  on  in  mute  amaze 
ment. 

The  colonel   was   delighted  with  the  enthusiastic  be- 

O 

havior  of  his  boys,  and,  with  head  high  in  the  air, 
shouted  : 

"  That's  splendid  !  That's  glorious  !  Keep  it  up  ! 
Keep  it  up  !  Keep  it—  Observing  something  un 
usual  in  the  look  of  the  crowd,  the  colonel  turned,  saw 
the  figure  in  the  narrow  passage,  and  pausing  and  lower- 
injj  his  voice,  queried  :  "  Xo\v,  who  in  the  name  of  Old 
Kick  is  that  ?  Get  out  of  the  way  thai*  !  Thar's  a  lord 
a-coming'  ;  do  you  hear  ?"  roared  the  disgusted  colonel. 
"  Get  out  or  come  in,  you  bloated  old  loafer.  Who  is 
he,  Ginger,  anyhow  ?" 

".Oh  he's  a  tender-foot,  I  guess.  Get  out  of  the  way 
thar*!" 

"  Oh,  get  out  or  come  in  !"  shouted  the  colonel. 
"  Do  you  hear  ?  We  are  lookin'  for  a  gentleman."' 

The  double  chin  of  the  stout,  dumpy  figure  dropped 
an  inch  or  two.  perhaps,  but  the  man  himself  did  not 
move  back,  forward,  or  aside  one  single  inch  to  make 
way  for  the  distinguished  nobleman  who  had  come  to 
Colorado  to  buy  a  mine. 

The  enraged  colonel  leaped  clown  from  the  rocks  at 
last  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  and,  rushing  forward,  took 
the  stranger  by  the  collar. 

"  If  you  won't  go  out,  come  in  and  clear  the  pass,  I 
say."  And  with  one  jerk  he  brought  him  half  way 
across  to  the  bar.  "There  is  a  lord  a-comin'  here,  all 
lace  and  gold  and  ruffles.  Do  you  hear?"  And  then 
he  shook  him  till  his  teeth  chattered.  "  Do  you  hear,  I 
say  ;  or  are  you  deaf  ?  Or  are  you  dumb  ?  Or  what's 
the  matter  with  you  ?  Hain't  you  got  no  manners  ?" 
Again  he  shook  him  till  the  breath  was  out  of  him,  and 


153  MEMORIE    AXD    RIME. 

the  stranger  attempted  in  vain  to  speak.  "  2s  o  !  Don't 
you  speak  !  Don't  you  dare  to  speak  to  me  !  If  thar's 
any  speakin'  to  be  done,  I'll  do  it  myself.  And  don't 
you  dare  to  speak  to  that  lord  when  he  comes  ;  for  I 
know  your  grammar's  bad.  Now  you  stand  thar  and 
pose  !"  and  here,  being  quite  out  of  breath,  he  planted 
the  half -strangled  man  by  the  shaft  as  if  he  were  a  post, 
and  belonged  there  as  a  part  of  the  machinery  of  the  mine. 

"  Pose,  I  tell  you,  and  make  an  impression.  And 
when  that  old  Lord  Howard  comes — " 

"Why,  why,  bless  me  soul,  I— I — I'm  Lord 
Howard  !"  at  last  gasped  the  honest  Englishman. 

"Eh?     Eh?     Bo  you  the  lord?" 

"I— lam." 

The  colonel  fell  back  against  the  bar.  He  did  not  cry 
out.  He  did  not  curse.  He  did  not  even  ask  for  any 
thing  to  drink. 

"Beaten  ag'in,  boys,"  at  last  murmured  the  colonel 
meekly,  aside  to  the  miners.  "  Another  fortune  slipped 
through  my  honest  grasp.  Ah,  Colorado's  a  hard 
country  to  make  a-livin'  in." 

One  miner,  a  green  one,  who  had  not  been  there  long, 
swore  furiously  for  a  moment,  but,  seeing  he  was  alone, 
and  feeling  how  inadequate  were  even  the  most  massive 
oaths,  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  then  the  silence  that 
followed  was  painful.  They  could  hear  the  wicked  little 
coyote  calling  from  the  hills  above,  but  that  was  all.  At 
last  the  two  men  began  to  gasp  and  gaze  at  each  other 
as  they  got  their  respective  breaths.  The  Englishman, 
who  had  been  rubbing  his  throat,  saw  the  bar,  and,  as  if 
resolved  to  see  if  he  could  still  swallow,  called  up  the 
crowd  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb,  and  treated  promiscu 
ously.  This  broke  the  ice  ;  for  he  swore  lustily  as  he 
drank,  with  the  very  first  breath  he  had  to  spare. 


THE    COL.    BILL    WILLIAMS    MINE.  153 

"  lie's  a  gentleman,"  squeaked  the  doctor  aside  to 
the  colonel,  as  he  wiped  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve. 

"  Swears  like  a  gentleman,"  answered  the  colonel. 

"  Treats  like  a  gentleman,"  creaked  Kit. 

((  And  pays  like  a  gentleman,"  said  Ginger,  as  he 
raked  in  and  clinked  two  sovereigns. 

"Well,  who  cares  for  a  live  English  lord,  anyhow," 
half  sneered  the  doctor,  taking  heart  again  from  his  full 
tumbler  of  Colorado  lightning. 

"  We  licked  'em  at  Bunker  Hill,  didn't  we  ?"  cour 
ageously  responded  the  colonel,  aside  to  his  piping  little 
partner,  and  then,  with  the  new  inspiration  upon  him, 
he  advanced  and,  bowing  profoundly  to  Lord  Howard  as 
he  reached  his  hand,  he  exclaimed  with  a  flourish  of  the 
arm  that  took  in  the  whole  Rocky  Mountains  :  "  You 
are  welcome,  sir.  Welcome  to  the  balmy  breezes,  the 
lofty  altitudes,  and  the  aurif'rous  regions  of  Colorado." 
He  broke  down,  struck  an  attitude  again,  and  went  on  : 
"  The  British  Lion,  sir — and  the  American  Eagle,  sir. 
The  American  Eagle,  sir — sir — the  British  Lion  and  the 
American  Eagle — sir — sir — sir — I — I — I'd  like  to  sell 
you  a  mine,  sir.  Xo — no — not  this  one.  Another  one. 
Got  another  up  canon.  Can  have  it  in  full  operation  in 
two  hours,  sir." 

My  lord  seemed  a  bit  dazed  and  did  not  respond. 

"  Come  to  Colorado  for  your  health,  I  s'pose,  my 
lord  ?"  piped  in  the  doctor  edgewise. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  bless  me  soul,  no  !"  pulled  the  old  noble 
man  at  last, with  his  glass  to  his  eye,  and  a  hand  still  to 
his  throat. 

"  Well,  that's  queer.  Everybody  comes  to  Colorado 
for  their  health,"  answered  the  doctor. 

"  Of  course,  then,  you  came  to  Colorado,  my  lord,  to 


154  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

* 

buy  a  mine?"  cried  Colonel  Bill.  u  Got  the  biggest 
thing  in  America,  sir  !" 

"  Why,  bless  me  soul,  no  !  I  want  no  mine.  I  want 
neither  mine  nor  medicine.  I — I — will  you  drink,  gen 
tlemen  ?"  He  had  learned  a  Colorado  trick  or  two. 
"  The  bloody  alkali  dust  of  Colorado  makes  me  throat 
hurt  ;  or  was  it  the  w'iskey  ?  Hot  !  bless  me  soul,  that 
was  hot  !" 

The  old  nobleman  wrestled  bravely  with  the  burning 
liquid,  and  Colonel  Bill,  who  now  stuck  like  a  burr  to 
his  elbow,  continued  : 

"  Climate  !  Climate,  my  lord  !  Colorado's  a  hot 
country.  But  I'd  like  to  sell  you  a  mine  up  the  canon, 
sir  ;  or  down  the  canon,  or  anywhere  you  please,  my 
lord  ;  forty  foot  vein,  dips,  spurs,  and  angles,  all  solid 
silver,  'cept  the  gold  in  it.  'Spect  to  find  it  in  a  liquid 
state  on  next  cross-cut  and  intersection  level.  Like  to 
sell  you  that  mine,  my  lord.  Buy  a  silver  mine,  sir  ? 
I'll  sell  you  a  gold  mine  ;  sell  you  a  diamond  mine  !" 

"  Why,  bless  me  soul,  do  you  Colorado  men  think  of 
nothing  but  selling  a  mine?''  blustered  the  old  noble 
man,  finally,  after  he  had  screwed  his  eye-glass  in  its 
place  and  had  looked  long  and  curiously  at  the  giant 
before  him.  "  Why,  at  Denver,  a  dozen  men  wanted  to 
sell  me  a  mine  before  I  got  the  dust  out  of  me  eyes  ; 
and  here  you  all  seem  to  think,  talk,  dream  of  nothing 
else." 

He  went  over  to  the  bar  and  reached  his  hand  to  Gin 
ger  for  his  change.  He  had  heard  enough,  and  wanted 
to  go  away. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.  That's  all  paid,"  answered 
Ginger. 

"  I  want  me  change.  I  gave  you  two  sovereigns,  me 
man.  I  gave  you  two  sovereigns." 


THE    COL.    BILL    WILLIAMS    MINE.  155 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  That's  all  right.  You  see,  sov 
ereigns  are  at  a  discount  in  Colorado." 

"  Bless  me  soul  !  Then  I'd  better  go  at  once,  and 
get  on  into  Canada." 

And  he  walked  aside,  and,  big  with  unborn  English 
oaths,  looked  down  into  the  now  empty  shaft. 

"  Don't  want  any  mine,"  said  the  colonel  mourn 
fully,  to  the  doctor. 

"  Nor  don't  want  any  medicine,"  gloomily  answered 
the  doctor.  "  He's  a  sort  of  ole'margarine  lord,  any 
how,  he  is.  Let's  go  for  him  !" 

"  Says  he  wants  to  git  into  Canada,"  chuckled  the 
colonel. 

The  big-hearted  Colonel  Bill  "Williams  was  reckless 
now.  He  had  met  with  many  failures  in  his  stormy  life 
on  the  border,  but  none  so  inglorious  as  this  he  had  just 
encountered.  He  was  in  disgrace  before  all  his  men, 
who  had  been  appalled  at  the  audacity  of  the  stranger, 
and  were  correspondingly  losing  confidence  in  Colonel 
Bill.  Now  they  stood  about,  gloomy,  helpless,  almost 
penniless.  If  he  could  not  sell  the  mine,  he  thought  to 
himself,  he  would  at  least  sell  the  very  green  old  English 
man.  Assuming  a  gay  air  of  banter,  he  began  : 

"  Didn't  you  say  you  wanted  to  git  to  Canada,  my 
lord  ?  I  say,  you  ain't  got  far  to  go  if  you  want  to  go  to 
Canada.  The  line  runs  right  through  my  silver-mine 
here,"  and  he  winked  at  the  crowd  back  over  his 
shoulder,  as  he  advanced  toward  my  lord  and  drew  a 
line  with  his  foot.  "  That's  Canada,  and  that's  the 
United  States.  You  pays  your  money  and  you  takes 
your  choice." 

The  nobleman  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  admiration  of 
this  unexampled  impudence.  Then,  as  if  believing  all, 
and  quietly  accepting  the  situation  of  things,  he  stepped 


15G  MKMORIE    AXD    KIME. 


forward  and  said  :  "  Why,  bless  mo  soul  !  Is  that 
Canada  ?"  and  this  seemingly  simple  old  man  looked  at 
the  spot  with  his  glass.  "  English  soil  !  God  bless  old 
England  !  I  love  her  !  I  love  every  foot  of  her  !"  and 
the  honest  old  Briton  crossed  over  and  set  down  his  foot 
firmly.  "  And  this  is  Canada,  hey  ?  Bloody  glad  to  be 
again  on  honest  English  soil."  Then,  winking  an  eye, 
not  to  that  crowd,  but  to  the  north  star  that  just  grazed 
the  brow  of  the  steep  bluff  above  him,  he  pompously 
pretended  to  take  possession.  His  face  was  toward  the 
narrow  pass  in  the  great  stone  wall  by  which  he  had  en 
tered,  and  taking  three  or  four  duck-like  strides  forward, 
he  passed  out,  and  they  never  saw  him  more. 

The  miners  melted  away  in  the  darkness,  one  by  one, 
as  the  lights  grew  lower,  and  as  the  last  torch  flickered 
out,  the  great  speculator,  whose  feeble  imitators  have 
since  overrun  the  world,  rolled  himself  in  a  blanket  by 
the  side  of  his  prospect  hole,  and  left  Colorado  to  the 
wonderful  stars  and  the  coyote  howling  from  the  hill. 


II. 

THE     COW     WIDOW     OF     COLORADO. 

RARE  Colorado  !  Yonder  she  rests,  her  head  of  gold 
pillowed  on  the  Rocky  Mountains,  her  breast  a  shield  of 
silver,  her  feet  in  the  brown  grass.  She  is  set  on  a  hill 
before  all  the  world.  She  is  naked  as  one  new  born  ; 
naked,  but  not  ashamed. 


TIIE    COW    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  157 

Thrown  together  in  the  barroom  of  the  only  hotel,  tlic 
miners  of  Leadville  gathered  about  their  great  leader,  and 
looked  up  to  him  on  this  evening  as  to  an  Alexander. 

The  cow  widow  had  returned  from  Paris.  She  would 
come  down  from  her  rooms  to  see  the  boys.  They  knew 
it  well,  for  had  not  the  local  papers  said  that  she  had 
returned,  dressed  fresh  from  the  hands  of  Worth  ? 

The  great  broad-shouldered,  tall,  and  altogether  mag- 
nificent  Colonel  Bill  Williams,  the  leader  of  all  Leadville, 
loved  the  cow  widow.  And,  indeed,  who  of  us  all  did 
not  love  her  ? 

With  her  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills,  her  bellowing 
herds  of  sleek  brown  steers,  her  lowing,  spotted  cows  by 
every  roadside,  in  every  gulch  and  canon,  branded  with 
a  cross  6n  the  flank — and  this  is  why  we  came  to  call  this 
wealthiest  and  best  of  all  the  brave  good  women  of 
Colorado  the  cow  widow. 

Perish  the  man  who  would  speak  of  her  with  dis 
respect,  or  dream  that  aught  but  compliment  is  meant  by 
this  sketch.  I,  who  have  eaten  her  bread  and  drank 
milk  many  a  time  as  I  rode  up  the  Rocky  Mountains  at 
her  ranch,  am  the  last  man,  now  that  she  has  returned 
again  to  Paris  and  assumed  the  reins  of  social  leadership 
for  the  fair  of  our  land,  to  do  aught  but  honor  her. 
And  should  this  sketch  be  translated  arid  published  in 
the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  as  others  of  my  sketches 
have  been,  I  must  beg  monsieur  to  translate  it  with  all 
consideration  and  respect  for  this  truly  good  lady,  who 
really  was  not  to  blame  that  we  all  loved  her  well  and 
wooed  her  ardently. 

How  jealous  Colonel  Bill  Williams  was  of  her  !  He 
devoutly  hoped  and  he  honestly  believed  that  his  suit 
would  be  successful.  And,  indeed,  each  man  of  us  there 
hoped,  in  case  he  did  not  get  her  himself,  that  the 


158  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

colonel  would  come  in  on  the  homestretch  the  winner  of 
the  race.  In  fact,  it  wras  really  necessary  that  some  like 
good  fortune  should  overtake  him  soon.  He  had  mines, 
it  is  true.  He  had  a  thousand  mines,  rich  mines,  exten 
sive  mines,  marvellously  rich  mines,  according  to  his  own 
account  of  them  ;  but  somehow  he  was  in  debt  head  and 
ears,  and  could  not  sell  even  his  richest  mine  for  a  change 
of  raiment. 

What  Colorado  miner  cannot  testify  to  the  absolute  and 
most  deplorable  poverty  of  a  gentleman  who  has  nothing 
in  the  world  ]but  a  mine  of  solid  gold  and  silver  ? 

The  noble  colonel  had  a  partner  in  all  his  enterprises, 
a  little,  pinched,  squeaky,  half-starved  doctor,  who  had 
a  pair  of  greasy  pill  bags  on  his  arm  and  enormous 
spectacles  over  his  nose.  The  nervous  and  anxious  little 
doctor  was  perhaps  the  only  one  of  us  there  who  wras  not 
wooing  the  widow  on  his  own  account.  But  this  gave 
him  a  double  force  to  work  for  his  partner.  These  two 
men,  outside  of  wooing  the  widow,  had  each  a  purpose 
in  life.  The  colonel's  other  sole  aim  in  life  was  to  sell 
somebody  a  mine — make  him  swallow  his  accounts  of  its 
marvellous  worth.  The  doctor's  purpose  was  to  make 
men  swallow  his  medicine. 

The  colonel  was  not  over  well  dressed.  And  who  of 
us  was  at  that  early  day  ?  Perhaps  it  was  this  want  of 
the  wedding  garment  that  made  him  so  madly  jealous  of 
every  strange  or  well-arrayed  gentleman  who  chanced  to 
approach  the  presence  of  the  coveted  cow  widow. 

On  this  memorable  night,  as  we  waited  for  her  to 
descend  to  where  we  were  all  gathered  to  receive  her  in 
what  served  as  barroom,  parlor,  and  hall,  the  moon  hung 
high  and  bright,  and  horses  wrere  champing  their  bits  at 
the  rack  outside  as  if  somebody  wras  contemplating  a  long, 
hard  drive. 


THE    COW    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  159 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  there  timidly  entered 
the  most  perfectly  well-dressed  young  man  that  had  ever 
as  yet  set  foot  in  Leadville. 

But  as  the  cow  widow  was  expected  to  descend  from 
the  stairs,  no  one  was  looking  in  the  direction  of  the 
door,  and  the  tall,  well-dressed,  but  pale  and  anxious 
young  man  stood  there  timidly  soliloquizing  to  himself  : 

"  Go  West  and  grow  up'withthe  country  !  I've  come 
West,  and,  instead  of  growing  up,  if  I  don't  get  a  job 
or  strike  something  soon,  Fll  starve,  grow  down  with 
the  country.  But  I  won't  be  bad.  Xo  !  Why,  before 
I'd  lie  like  a  Colorado  miner,  I'd  die.  In  Xew  York  I 
had  no  money,  but  I  had  pride,  the  real  old  Livingston 
pride  ;  landed  in  Colorado  last  week,  and  have  been 
hungry  ever  since.  Pride,  yes,  I  have  pride  !  I'll  not 
sink  down  to  rags  and  revolvers,  a  nickname  and  a  slouch 
hat.  Xo  !  I,  Richard  Percival  Livingston,  of  the  city  of 
Xew  York,  was  born  a  gentleman,  bred  a  gentleman,  and 
I  believe  a  gentleman  can  be  a  gentleman  in  Colorado  as 
well  as  in  Xew  York.  Xo  !  I'll  hold  my  own  in  Colo 
rado.  ' ' 

The  doctor  looked  over  his  shoulder  and,  winking  to 

/  o 

the  boys,  merely  said  : 

"A  tenderfoot." 

The  colonel  at  the  first  glimpse  was  furiously  jealous, 
but,  concealing  his  displeasure,  said  : 

"  So  it  is.  I'll  sell  him  a  mine!"  Then  approach 
ing,  he  continued  to  the  stranger:  "  Want  to  buy  a 
mine,  stranger  T' 

"  They  all  want  to  sell  me  a  mine,"  mused  the  tall,  cler 
ical  young  man  to  himself;  then,  turning  to  the  colonel,  he 
said  timidly  but  earnestly  :  "  Sir,  should  you  miners  of 
Colorado  see  the  Angel  Gabriel  descending  von  shin- 


ICO  MEMOHIE    AND    KIME. 

ing  summits  to  sound  the  last  trump,  what  would  be  your 
first  impulse  ?" 

The  glorious  colonel  was  not  at  all  abashed  or  discom 
fited,  but  in  a  sweep  of  his  arm,  like  a  cyclone,  he  cried  : 
"  Sell  him  a  mine  !  By  goll,  sell  him  a  mine  !"  Then, 
approaching  a  little  closer  and  lowering  the  cyclonic 
arm,  and  softening  his  voice,  he  said,  as  he  looked  the 
meek  and  modest  new-comer  in  the  face,  "  Buy  a  mine, 
stranger  ?  Sell  you  a  mine,  whole  mountain  of  solid  gold 
in  it  !  Buy  a  mine,  Stranger  ?" 

The  sublime  audacity  of  the  big  Colonel  Bill  Williams 
was  conviction  itself,  and  the  pale,  hesitating,  hand 
some  young  man  modestly  answered  :  ^ 

"  Yes,  I — I — that  is,  supposing  the  transaction  be  one 
of  commercial  amity  in  deference  to — to  financial  embar 
rassments,  sir."" 

"Hey?1' 

"  I  mean  if  you  will  sell  me  the  mine  on  time." 

"  Time  !  Boys,  he  wants  time.  Time  !  Why,  we've 
got  time  enough  for  the  whole  universe  in  Colorado  ! 
'Bout  the  only  thing  we  have  got,  eh,  boys  ?  No,  sir, 
we  want  the  pepper  sauce  right  down,  and  don't  you 
fail  to  record  it.". 

"Well,  no  harm  done,  I  hope.  You  offer  to  sell  a 
mine.  I  offer  my  terms.  You  decline.  No  harm,  sir  !" 

"  Not  a  bit,  stranger,  and  there's  my  hand.  I'm  Col 
onel  Bill  Williams,  the  strangers'  friend,"  and  here  he 
raised  a  hand  to  the  side  of  his  mouth,  and  said  aside,  "  if  I 
can  sell  him  a  mine.  This  is  Mr.  Ginger,  the  friend  of 
the  Indian  agent,  the  Hon.  Mr.  Snagly.  This  is  Dr. 
Bags,  my  pard,  and  the  friend  of  the  cow  widder,  the 
richest  woman  in  Colorado.  He'll  doctor  you,  or  get 
you  a  job  to  herd  sheep.  He's  got  a  powerful  influence 
with  the  widder." 


THE    COW    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  10.1. 

The  tall,  timid  stranger  stood  full  an  inch  taller  as  he 
walked  aside  and  said  to  himself,  "  The  richest  woman  in 
Colorado  !  And  a  widow.  Widows  will  many.  Now, 
here  is  a  wealthy  widow.  This  wealthy  widow  must  and 
will  marry.  She  will  choose  among  those  who  surround 
her.  "Well,  as  between  these  men  and  myself,"  and 
here  he  looked  at  his  clothes,  "  the  chances  are  for  yon, 
Mr.  Richard  Percival  Livingston.  For,  whatever  hap 
pens,  I'll  be  a  gentleman.  Xo  ragged  clothes,  no  re 
volver,  no  slouch  hat,  no  nickname  for  Richard  Percival 
Livingston."  Getting  confidential,  he  turned  to  the 
doctor  and  said,  'k  Yes,  I  should  like  to  know  the  widow. " 

4 'You  shall,  you  shall." 

The  colonel  looked  dark  for  a  second,  then  shouted  as 
he  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder  :  "  You  shall  !  What's 
your  name  ?" 

The  deep  disgust  of  the  tall  young  man  at  this  famil 
iarity  was  only  half  concealed  as  he  answered:  "  My 
name  is  Richard  Percival  Livingston,  of  Xew  York  City. " 

The  house  nearly  exploded  with  suppressed  laughter, 
and  the  colonel  again  brought  his  broad  hand  down  on 
the  man's  shoulder,  and  shouted  : 

"  All  right,  Dick  ;  you  shall  know  her.  All  right, 
Slim  Dick,"  and  again  he  slapped  the  breath  out  of  him. 
While  the  tall,  pale,  and  thoroughly  disgusted  young 
man  was  pulling  himself  together,  the  thin,  hatchet-faced 
little  doctor  squeaked  in  his  ear  as  he  dangled  the  pill 
bags  on  his  arm  : 

"You  look  square,  young  man.  Nothing  triangular 
or  three-cornered  ?  You'll  do,  Slim  Dick.  Bu^if  you 
didn't  come  to  Colorado  to  buy  a  mine,  you  came  to  Col 
orado  for  your  health,  didn't  you  ?" 

"  Yes — I — I — yes,  I  came  to  Colorado  for  my  health, 
I  suppose." 


162  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

66  Well,  if  you  came  to  Colorado  for  your  health,  you 
of  course  need  a  doctor." 

The  tall,  pale  young  man  shrugged  his  aching  shoulders 
and  muttered  aside  to  himself:  "Why,  what  does  he 
mean  ?  But  I  see  I've  got  to  humor  him  in  order  to  get 
acquainted  with  the  widow."  Then,  turning  to  the 
doctor,  he  said  :  "  Well,  yes,  doctor,  of  course,  and  if  I 
need  medical  advice,  I — 

"  Need  it  ?  You  need  it  the  moment  you  arrive  here. 
It's  while  getting  climated  you  need  a  doctor.  Once 
climated  you  live  forever.  Now,  I'm  the  doctor  and 
the  bosom  friend  of  the  cow  widow.  And,  by  the  way, 
I'll  introduce  you,  Dick;"  and  here  the  little  squeaky 
doctor  poked  him  familiarly  in  the  ribs  with  his  thumb. 

"  Yes,  and  you  take  my  advice,  Slim  Dick,  employ 
the  doctor,  build  yourself  up,  get  biceps  like  that — and 
go  for  the  widder  ;"  and  here  the  giant  brought  down 
the  big  right  hand  with  a  force  that  almost  extinguished 
the  slim  stranger. 

"Let  me  see  your  tongue,"  squeaked  the  doctor. 
The  tongue  came  timidly  forth.  "  Just  as  I  expected. 
High  living  !  Coated  !  Livin'  too  high.  Been  eatin' 
too  much.  That's  the  way  with  you  young  bloods. 
Kill  yourselves  eatin'  when  you  first  come  here."  And 
without  another  word  the  hatchet-faced  little  doctor 
goes  to  the  bar  and  Ginger  hands  him  his  other  bags, 
from  which  he  takes  a  small  paper  of  powders  and  hands 
it  to  Livingston,  saying  : 

"  Now,  you  take  this  at  once." 

The  tall,  pale  gentleman  started  back  and  trembled 
where  he  stood  :  c '  But — but  you — you  may  be  mistaken 
in  the  case,  and,  and — 

"  Mistaken  in  the  case  ?  I  mistaken  ?  You  insult  me, 
sir  !  Take  it !  Take  it  at  once  !  Perfectly  harmless." 


THE    COW    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  163 

u  Well,  if  it  is  perfectly  harmless,  I  suppose  it  will  do 
no  harm  ;"  and  the  tall,  pale  gentleman  shut  his  eyes 
and  meekly  swallowed  it. 

"  Good  !"  ejaculates  the  little  doctor.  "  Now.  a  little 
somethin'  to  work  it  off,  and  I  will  have  you  sound  as  a 
rock.  Ah  !  this  high  livin'  is  a  very  dangerous  thing. 
Ginger,  hand  me  out  my  biggest  saddle-bags."  He 
took  the  bags,  put  on  another  pair  of  glasses,  unbuckled 
and  took  out  a  bottle. 

The  colonel  and  the  doctor  conferred  for  a  moment 
as  the  former  unbuckled  the  enormous  saddle-bags  and 
set  down  the  bottle,  and  then  the  former  came  gayly  for 
ward  and,  again  slapping  the  shoulder,  cried:  "Yes, 
Dick,  you  must  see  that  widder  ride.  Why,  she's  a 
comet !  Twenty  miles  at  a  dash,  and  don't  turn  a  hair. 
Her  ranch  is  twenty  miles  up  the  mountains.  Been  to 
Paris  !  Ah,  she's  no  slouch  !  Dresses  !  "Well,  she's 
the  only  real  copper  bottom  that  ever  I  seed  in  Colorado, 
and" — here  he  leaned  and  spoke  close  and  confidentially 
— "'  if  I  don't  get  her  I'd  as  soon  you'd  have  her  as  any 
man  I  know,  Slim  Dick." 

The  tall,  pale  gentleman  was  nearly  knocked  out  of 
his  boots  this  time,  and  as  he  turned  away  he  mut 
tered  : 

"  Ah  !  these  vulgar  fellows,  with  their  nicknames 
and  rude  familiarity.  But  I  won't  have  it.  I'm  going 
to  hold  my  own  in  Colorado." 

"  I  say,  Dick,  can  you  ride  ?"  gaYly  cried  the  colonel, 
following  him  up. 

"  Ride  ?     Yes  ;  all  gentlemen  can  ride." 

"  Bully  !  Now,  I  sort  of  suspect  she'll  ask  you  to  go 
up  to  her  ranch.  She's  powerful  kind.  And  since  she's 
been  to  Paris  she  kind  o'  takes  a  shine  to  clothes,  ye 
know.  And  now  if  she  does  ask  you  to  go,  you  go. 


164  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

And  if  you  do  go  for  to  take  that  twenty-mile  ride,  you 
keep  up  with  her.'" 

"  I  say,  Ginger,  you  got  a  tablespoon  ?"  calls  the  doc 
tor  to  the  red-headed  man  at  the  bar. 

"  No,  but  I've  got  a  soup  ladle  somewhere." 
"  Good  !     It  will  take  about  four  doses.      He's  been 
livin'  so  hi<j;h.';      And   here  the  doctor   takes  and    ex- 

O 

amines  the  enormous  ladle  and  pours  out  something  from 
the  bottle,  saying  to  himself  :  "  Jest  the  thing  I  wanted. " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continues  the  colonel  gayly,  "  she  shook 
a  fellow  here  last  year,  a  banker  at  that,  because  he 
couldn't  keep  up  with  her.  If  she  asks  you  for  to  go 
with  her,  just  you  go,  and  you  keep  up  with  her  if  it 
kills  every  lioss  she's  got  on  the  ranch." 

Again  hope  blossoms  in  the  heart  of  the  tall,  pale  gen 
tleman,  and  while  he  disdains  to  respond  to  the  vulgar 
colonel,  he  says  cheerily  to  himself  :  "  I'll  go  with  her, 
I  will  woo  her,  win  her."  Then,  feeling  better,  he 
turned  to  the  colonel  and  reached  his  hand,  saying  :  ''I 
thank  you,  sir  ;  I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  You  are 
a  little  rough  ;  but  you  seem  a  frank,  good  fellow,  and  I 
hope  we  shall  be  friends.  I  am  a  stranger,  and  don't 
quite  fit  in  in  Colorado  yet.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  don't  intend  to  fit  in  altogether.  No,  sir,  I  don't  like 
nicknames,  and  I  don't  intend  to  have  one.  I  am  going 
to  hold  my  own  in  Colorado." 

The  doctor  had  put  the  cork  in  the  big  bottle  and  put 
the  big  bottle  in  the  tig  saddle-bags,  and,  with  his  glasses 
low  down  on  his  nose,  was  now  coming  slowly  forward 
from  behind  with  a  big  ladle  full  to  the  brim. 

u]STow,  Mr.  Slim  Dick,  if  you'll  jest  take  this  ere  oil 
to  work  off— 

"  Oil  !  Oil !  Good  heavens  !  But  I — I'm  not  going 
to  take  that.  I— I—" 


THE    COW    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  1C5 

"  Oh,  but  yon  are  going  to  take  it,  Slim  Dick  !  You 
see,  your  tongue's  coated  ;  too  Ligli  livin'.  I  had  to 
give  you  that  ere  powder  to  cut  off  that  coatin'.  Of 
course  1  had  to  give  you  sometliin'  pretty  strong.  For 
you've  been  a  livin'  awful  high.  Yon  know  yon  have. 
So,  yon  see,  I  put  in  a  good  deal  of  ass-senic  !  This  has 
got  for  to  work  it  off." 

"  But  I  protest  !  I  won't  take  it  !"  and  the  tall,  pale 
gentleman  starts  for  the  door. 

3  The  doctor's  left  hand  is  clutched  in  the  tail  of  his 
broadcloth  coat,  and  he  turns  him  round  and  squeaks  in 
his  ear  :  "  Well,  now,  look  here,  Dick,  yon  will  take  it  ! 
Don't  you  attempt  for  to  leave  with  that  ass-senic  in  you. 
I've  got  my  perfessional  repertation  to  keep  up.  I  don't 
want  no  corpse  on  my  hands.  I've  got  my  repertation 
to  look  after.  Take  it." 

"Oil,  oil!  Oh,  if  there  is  anything  I  hate  !  Xo, 
never  !"  The  doctor  pecks  with  his  sharp  nose  to  the 
grinning  row  of  miners  that  lean  against  the  wall,  and 
two  come  forward  and  clutch  his  shoulders  from  behind. 

"Good!  Hold  his  hands  !  Til  hold  his  nose."  .The 
doctor  tiptoes  up,  seizes  the  nose,  the  ladle  goes  up,  the 
head  goes  back,  bah!  "There!  You'll  be  climated 
now  in — in — well,  very  soon." 

"I — I— I  ought  to  murder  yon,''  gasps  and  gags  the 
stranger.  "  Keep  it  down,  keep  it  down,"  kindly  insists 
the  doctor.  The  colonel  comes  forward  and,  again 
slapping  the  shoulders,  shouts  out  gayly  :  "  Yon  said  you 
were  going  to  hold  your  own  in  Colorado.  Do  it,  Slim 
Dick.'  Do  it  or  bust  !  Hello  !  here's  the  widder  now." 

Extravagantly  dressed  and  followed  by  a  Chinese  maid 
in  native  costume,  the  gorgeous  widow  descends  the 
narrow  stairs.  The  queer  little  maid  is  loaded  down  with 
enormous  fans  in  each  hand  and  bundles  under  her  arms, 


166  HEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

wliicli  slie  is  constantly  dropping,  and  which  the  widow 
is  constantly  picking  up,  while  the  helpless  little  heathen 
closes  her  eyes  and  rocks  to  and  fro  on  her  wooden  shoes, 
with  her  little  feet  set  wide  apart. 

The  tall,  pale  man  suppresses  a  rebellion  in  his  stomach 
at  sight  of  this  rich  and  beautiful  widow,  and  each  man 
against  the  wall  assumes  his  most  imposing  attitude  as 
Colonel  Bill  Williams  delivers  the  address  of  welcome  : 

"  Welcome  back  from  Paris  !  Welcome  back  to  the 
sublime  and  auriferous  regions  of  Colorado.  Welcome 
back  to  your  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills.  Welcome  to 
this,  the  club  rooms  of  the  honest  miners,  of  which  I 
am  the  honored  President.  Widow,  you  are  welcome  ! 
Gentlemen,  this  is  the  rose  of  the  mountain  and  the  lily 
of  the  valley.  She  shall  never  die,  nor  wither,  nor  grow 
flat  or  stale  or  unprofitable  or —  But  the  shouts  of 
welcome  drown  the  eloquent  address  as  the  miners  crowd 
around. 

"  But,  I  say,  widder,"  squeaks  the  doctor,  as  he  leads 
forward  Livingston,  who  has  crossed  his  hands  low  down, 
"  I  want  to  present  my  very  dear  young  friend,  Mr.  Liv 
ingston,  patient  of  mine,  come  to  Colorado  for  his  health. 
Patient  of  mine,  widder  ;  a  gentleman  and  a  patient  of 
mine."  The  widow  answers  merrily  : 

"Mr.  Livingston,  1  am  glad  to  see  you;  glad  to 
know  you  ;  hope  you're  well."  And  here  the  gorgeous 
widow  shook  his  feeble  hand  so  heartily  that  it  was  with 
the  utmost  effort  he  kept  down  the  rebellion  in  his 
stomach . 

"  I  set  out  to-night  for  a  long,  lively  moonlight  ride  to 
my  ranch.  Colonel  Bill  Williams  here  goes  with  me.  It 
is  one  unbroken  gradual  slope  in  the  Rocky  Mountains," 
cried  the  spirited  widow  ;  "  not  a  tree,  not  a  stone,  not  a 
stump  ;  all  as  level  as  this  floor,  and  in  this  full  yellow 


THE  COW  WIDOW  OF  COLORADO.          1C? 

harvest  moon  as  light  and  as  lovely  as  Paradise."  She 
pauses,  approaches,  lays  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  says, 
"  You  will  go  ?" 

"She  is  beautiful,"  whispers  the  ravished  youth  to 
himself  ;  "  and  my  fortune  is  made.  Oh,  thank  you, 
madam!  Thank  you  with  all  my  heart."  He  grasps 
her  hand,  he  gags  a  little,  but  recovers  with  effort,  and 
cries,  fondly  :  "With  all  my  heart.  I  love  the  saddle." 

"  Then  you  shall  have  a  bold  and  spirited  horse  ;"  and 
again  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  looking  in  his  face, 
she  says  close  and  fondly  :  "  And  if  I  don't  find  you  at 
my  side  always,  to  the  end  of  the  clash,  even  to  my  gates, 
good-by.  But  if  you  are  there  !  If  you  are  at  my  side 
to  the  end— ha  !  ha  !  ha  !"  and  her  sweet  low  laugh  was 
more  than  mortal  could  resist. 

"Madam,  I  thank  you  for  this  opportunity  to  show 
how  devoted  I  can  be  to  you.  At  your  side  always  ! 
Madam,  I  will  be  at  your  side  to  the  last  leap  over  the 
plains  of  Colorado,  even  to  your  gates."  Then,  while 
the  jealous  colonel  glared  with  rage,  he  leaned  his  pale 
face  forward  and  whispered,  "And,  madam,  I  would 
that  I  could  remain  forever  at  your  side,  even  down  to 
the  gates  of  death." 

i;  AVe  will  know  each  other  better  by  the  time  we  reach 
my  ranch,  through  twenty  miles  of  moonlight,"  mur 
murs  the  widow,  while  the  colonel  glares  and  confers 
hastily  aside  with  his  partner. 

Then  the  little  doctor  comes  lip  and  pulls  at  the  sleeve 
of  his  patient,  who  is  whispering  sweet  compliments  to 
the  widow. 

"  My  fortune  is  made  in  Colorado,  after  all,"  says  the 
tall,  pale  gentleman  to  himself. 

"  How  he  loves  me  at  first  sight,"  murmurs  the  widow, 
as  she  turns  to  hide  her  blushes. 


168  MKMORIE    AND    KTME. 

And  still  the  colonel  glares  and  the  little  doctor  tugs 
at  the  sleeve  of  the  hated  rival. 

"  All  ready!"  roars  a  rough  voice  through  the  lialf- 
opened  door,  through  which  three  splendid  and  restless 
horses  are  seen  champing  their  bits  and  stamping  fret 
fully  as  the  man  at  the  door  holds  stoutly  to  the  reins. 

A  moment  more  and  the  three  are  mounted,  the  horses' 
heads  are  turned  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  they  bound 
away  with  the  wind.  The  air  is  sweet  and  strong,  full 
of  life,  like  wine.  The  moon  has  sown  the  road  with  sil 
ver.  Not  a  word  for  the  first  five  miles.  Oh,  the  glory 
of  a  ride  like  that !  Speech  at  such  a  time  is  profanity. 

At  last,  after  nearly  ten  miles,  the  horses  began  to 
slacken  pace  from  exhaustion.  Colonel  Bill  had  just  set 
the  rowels  of  his  great  Spanish  spurs  in  the  broad  cinch  in 
order  to  push  his  horse  and  his  fortunes,  too,  with  the 
widow,  when  a  low,  deep,  rumbling  sound  was  heard 
directly  ahead,  and  the  colonel  stood  up  in  his  stirrups. 
The  plain  was  black  before — a  moving,  billowy,  bellow 
ing  mass,  that  was  rolling  directly  upon  the  doomed  riders. 
He  alone  saw  and  understood  the  terrible  doom  that  was 
theirs.  To  the  right  ?  To  the  left  ?  Fly  before  this 
billowy  sea  of  buffalo  ?  You  might  as  well  attempt  to 
flank  or  fly  before  the  Atlantic.  He  laid  his  hand  on  the 
widow's  reins,  checked  her  horse,  and  pointed  to  the  peril 
ahead.  There  was  at  first  a  pang  of  bitterness,  then  a 
sense  of  grandeur,  as  he  reined  Livingston's  horse  at  her 
side.  As  the  living  sea  rolled  down  to  engulf  them,  he 
bade  them  stand  close  and  still  together.  Then  drawing 
a  pistol  he  spurred  on  in  front,  and,  springing  to  the 
ground,  waited  there  to  die  for.  her  he  loved. 

He  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  The  earth  trembled. 
A  moaning  sound  came  with  tlie  surging  mass.  He  could 
hear  them  breathe.  An  unpractised  man  would  have 


THE    COW    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  109 

said  lie  could  see  their  black  eyes  shine  as  they  rolled 
down  upon  him.  But  that  which  glistened  in  the  vast 
tranquil  moon  was  the  bright  crooked  little  horns  of  the 
hairy  monsters ;  their  eyes  were  closed  utterly,  else 
they  had  been  blinded  by  the  dust.  The  horses  stood 
trembling,  paralyzed  with  terror  at  the  awful  sight  and 
sense  of  death.  The  man  dropped  to  his  knee  and 
brought  his  heavy  pistol  to  rest  on  his  right  arm  as  he 
felt  their  breath  in  his  face.  A  flash  !  another  !  and 
another  !  and  then  horse,  man,  monster,  the  three 
rolled  in  the  dust  together,  an  indistinguishable  mass. 
But  the  herd  divided  as  against  a  rock  and  rolled  away 
to  the  right  and  left,  not  even  touching  the  two  that  still 
sat  their  trembling  horses. 

The  officers  and  soldiers  in  chase  came  up  soon  after, 
and  compelling  the  widow  and  her  companion  to  dash 
ahead  at  once  to  the  ranch,  lest  a  like  calamity  might 
overtake  them,  drew  the  bleeding  and  broken  and  sense 
less  man  from  out  the  dust,  where  he  lay  wedged  in  be 
tween  the  two  dead  animals.  They  bore  him  to  the 
military  camp  on  the  plain  below. 

How  things  whirl  around  in  Colorado  !  It  is  a  windy 
land.  Livingston,  too,  became  a  great  miner  of  Col 
orado.  He  borrowed  two  six-shooters,  and  ascending  to 
the  summit  of  a  mountain,  located  a,  mine.  Before  he  had 
been  three  months  in  Colorado  he  was  heard  boasting  in 
a  barroom  that  he  had  discovered  that  mine  by  seeing 
the  solid  silver  flashing  in  the  morning  sun  and  knocking 
its  silver  helmet  against  the  morning  star,  as  he  tended 
the  cow  widow's  cattle  ten  thousand  feet  below  ! 

It  was  late  in  the  summer  before  poor,  brave  old  Colonel 
Bill  came  forth,  crawling  and  dragging  on  his  crutches. 

His  squeaking  little  partner  had  been  all  the  time  at 


170  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

his  side,  and  every  morning  at  his  bedside  a  great  heap 
of  flowers  and  Colorado  roses  was  to  be  found.  But  no 
woman's  face  had  beamed  in  upon  him  as  he  lay  there  in 
the  gloomy  barrack  save  only  that  of  Madge,  the  half 
Indian  girl,  a  strange,  wild  creature  belonging  to  neither 
race,  and  shuttlecocked  to  and  fro  between  them,  now  a 
nurse,  now  a  guide,  but  always  a  friend  to  the  suffering. 

The  brokeri-up  old  colonel  had  never  spoken  of  the 
widow.  Thought  of  her  ?  What  else  had  he  to  think 
of? 

"  Pard,  where  do  you  get  'em  ?" 

"Get  what?" 

66  Them  roses  that's  been  a  comin'  all  summer,  as 
regular  as  the  sun  ?" 

"Get  'em?  I  don't  get  'em.  Got  somethin'  better 
than  posies  to  tend  to  ;  got  ruy  doctorin'  to  do  ;  guess 
it's  Madge." 

"  Ah,  guess  it  is,"  sighed  Colonel  Bill,  as  he  shuffled  his 
crutches  together  and  again  fell  to  thinking  how  Living 
ston  was  having  it  all  his  own  way  with  the  cow  widow. 

Suddenly  one  morning  the  whole  country  round  came 
pouring  into  the  post.  The  Indians,  it  was  reported, 
had  broken  out,  and  settlers  and  miners  were  fleeing  for 
their  lives. 

Livingston  was  among  the  first  to  fly  from  his  mountain 
of  silver  for  protection.  He  entered  the  stockade  puffing 
and  blowing,  loaded  down  with  pistols,  overshadowed 
by  an  immense  slouch  hat,  without  band  or  crown,  and 
the  raggedest  man  in  the  mines. 

"Indian  war  !"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Driven  at  last 
from  my  mine  of  immense  wealth.  Everybody  rushing 
into  the  stockade  to  escape  the  Indians.  Why,  hello, 
Madge  !  Glad  to  see  you  !  Going  back  to  the  Keser- 
vation,  I  hear.  I  hope  you'll  try  and  fit  in  to  the  Res- 


THE    COW    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  171 

ervation.  That's  best,  you  see.  ^so  use  a  bucking 
against  it.  See  what  1  was  when  I  came  to  Colorado. 
I've  melted  down  ;  fitted  in  like  a  square  peg  in  a  round 
hole.  Ah,  if  my  Jerusha  in  Xew  York  could  see  me 
now  !  I  am  rich  now,  Madge.  1  try  to  conceal  it,  so 
that  I  might  not  be  robbed.  But  I  am  rich — immensely 
rich  !"  and  he  spread  his  hands  over  his  patches. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Livingston  !"  cried  the  merry  widow,  en 
tering  the  stockade  as  Madge  left  it.  "I  thought  you 
were  up  in  the  mountains  at  work  in  your  great  mine." 

"  Widow,  you  may  well  say  great  mine.  For  great 
mine  it  is.  And  I  am  rich,  very — very — very  rich." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  of  it.  You  will  be  so  happy  now. 
I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart.  With  youth  and 
health  and  wealth,  how  can  you  help  but  be  happy  ?" 

"Happy?  !Xo,  I  will  never  be  happy  again,  never, 
never  be  happy  again,  unless— unless — " 

"  Why,  Mr.  Livingston,  unless  what  ?" 

"  Ah,  madam,  while  toiling  away  up  there  in  my 
great  mine,  there  in  my  mountain  of  wealth,  that  flashes 
its  silver  sheen  in  the  shining  moon,  that  knocks  its 
helmet  against  the  morning  star — 

"Ah,  Mr.  Livingston." 

"Yes,  madam,  while  toiling  up  there  my  heart  was 
here.  At  last  I  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  to-day  I 
dropped  my  pick  while  prying  off  a  brick  of  silver,  and 
came  to  throw  myself  at  your  feet.  I  offer  you  all  that 
wealth.  All  !  The  whole  mountain  !  I  don't  want  it." 

"OMr.  Livingston!" 

"Be  mine  !"  And,  holding  his  patches,  he  fell  upon 
his  knees.  "  This  is  my  first  love."  Then  he  moaned 
aside:  "  What  a  liar  I've  got  to  be  in  Colorado!  If 
Jerusha  could  see  me  now  !  This  is  my  first,  my  last, 
my  only  love.  Be  mine  !" 


172  MEMORIE    AXD    RIME. 

Merrily  the  little  woman  laughed  as  the  ragged  man 
arose  from  before  her  and  a  boy  entered  with  a  message. 

"  From  her  !  From  the  one  woman  I  love  ;  and  I 
ought  to  have  received  it  weeks  ago  !"  and  Livingston 
read  eagerly  : 

DEAR  RICHARD  :  Come  back  at  once.  Father  is  in  Eu 
rope  and  mother  is  willing.  Money  no  object.  Come. 

Yours, 

JERUSIIA. 

"  Struck  it  at  last  in  Colorado  !  Stop,  boy  !  There 
must  be  an  answer.  Got  any  paper,  boy  ?  Well,  lend 
me  your  pencil,  then. "  And,  tearing  oif  a  paper  cuff,  he 
read  very  rapidly  : 

MY  DEAR,  DEAR  JERUSIIA  :  Yours  finds  me  deep  in 
my  silver  mine,  "  The  Jerusha."  Am  running  a  cross 
tunnel  to  tap  the  silver  level,  where  we  hope  to  tind  the 
silver  in  a  liquid  state  flowing  through  all  its  dips  and 
spurs  and  angles.  At  present  we  are  in  solid  silver,  and 
find  it  hard  to  work.  My  dear,  dear  Jerusha,  how  con 
stant  I  have  been  to  you,  heaven  and  the  shining  stars  of 
Colorado  only  know.' 

"  Take  that,  boy.  Take  it  and  %  !  Stop  !  I  must 
add  a  postscript. "  And  again  he  wrote  : 

MY  DEAR,  DEAR  JERUSHA  :  Telegraph  me  $500  to 
the  City  Bank  of  Denver.  This  solid  silver  is  so  hard  to 
cut  oif  that  I  may  be  delayed  an  hour  or  two,  and  I  would 
not  spare  one  sweet  moment  from  you. 

"  Go  !  Pay  at  other  end.  I  follow  with  the  next 
soldiers  for  Denver." 

The  doctor  came  forth  from  the  barracks,  polishing 
his  specs  on  a  corner  of  his  coat-tail,  and  cordially  wel 
comed  the  widow. 

"  But  Colonel  Bill ;  how  is  he  ?" 

"  Better,  better.  All  the  time  better.  But  broken 
up.  Why,  he's  got  more  joints  in  his  legs  than  a  lobster. ' ' 


THE    CO\V    WIDOW    OF    COLORADO.  173 

"  And  does  he — tell  me — does  he  ever  speak  of  me  ?" 

u  Speak  of  you  ?  Why,  when  we  first  brought  him.  in 
nere — well,  he  didn't  speak  of  anything  else.  But  he 
was  out  of  his  head  then  ;  didn't  know  what  he  was 
about,  you  see." 

"  But  now  ?     Don't  he  speak  of  me  now  ?" 

"Not  now,  widder.  You  sec,  when  he  got  up  on  his 
crutches  and  got  a  good  look  at  himself,  and  seed  how  he 
was  smashed  up — well,  after  that  he  didn't  never  speak 
of  you  any  more." 

"  Didn't  speak  of  me  any  more  after  he  saw  how  he 
was  broken  up  ?" 

"  Never  any  more." 

"  He  ought  to  know  that  I  want  him  to — to  know — 
— that  I  am  grateful,  grateful.  That  I — I — I  wrant  him 
to  come  to  the  ranch  and  look  after  my  cows." 

The  doctor  stopped  polishing  the  glasses  with  the  cor 
ner  of  his  coat  and  gave  a  long,  low  whistle  to  himself. 
Then  he  turned  straight  about,  went  into  the  barracks, 
and  brought  out  his  partner  on  his  crutches,  muttering  to 
him  as  they  came:  "Now,  old  pard,  don't  put  it  that 
way.  If  she  loves  you — if  she  loves  you — why,  why,  she 
loves  you,  smashed  up  or  no  smashed  up." 

"  But  I — I'm  all  gone  to  pieces,  and  in  this  little  time 
my  head's  got  as  white  as  the  snow  up  yonder." 

"Well,  what  of  that  ?" 

"  What  of  that  ?  Why,  I  won't  blight  her  sunny  life 
with  the  few  chilly  days  that  I've  got  left.  No,  I  won't 
tell  her  I  love  her." 

"  And  why  won't  you  tell  her  you  love  her  ?" 

u  Because — because  I  do  love  her  so  !" 

"  You  saved  my  life  !"  cried  the  widow,  eagerly  greet 
ing  him. 

"  Widder,  there  is  a  mistake.     I  don't  like  to  lie  to  you, 


174  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

or  let  yon  believe  a  He.  You  know  von  was  blinded  by 
the  dnst  and  couldn't  quite  see." 

"  Yes,  but  I  saw  enough  to  know  that  it  was  you  who 
saved  my  life." 

"Widder,  I — I — it  was  not  I  that  saved  you.  You 
was  blinded  and  couldn't  see.  It  was  not  I,  not  I." 

"Not  yon  I" 

i '  No.  It  was  the  soldiers.  Ha,  ha  !  It  was  that  hand 
some  officer,  wiclder.  But,  widder,  it's  good  in  you,  but 
there's  some  mistake.  I — I  was  sick  a  long  time,  widder. 
I  lay  on  my  back  there  bandaged  like  a  mummy,  a  long 
time." 

"  And  I  from  my  ranch  sent  every  day  to  ask  how  you 
were.  And  every  day  with  my  own  hand  I  gathered 
flowers  for  your  bedside  and  sent  them  ten  miles  to  you 
every  morning." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  it  was  Madge.  Well.  Madge,  she  came 
and  sat  by  my  bedside,  anyhow." 

"  And  it  was  good  in  her." 

' 'Yes,  that's  it.  It  was  good  in  her.  And  I — 1 — 
liked  her  for  it." 

«  You— you  liked  her  for  it  ?  Why,  yes,  of  course  you 
did." 

"  Yes.  I — I  loved  to  have  her,  and  I  learned  to  love 
her,  and — I  love  her  now." 

"  You  love  her  now  ?  You  love  her  now  ?  Why,  then, 
I  wish  you  well.  I  hope  she  will  love  you  as — as  I  love 
you." 

There  was  a  gleam  of  delight  in  his  eye  not  seen  there 
since  the  night  of  the  dreadful  ride.  He  let  go  his  crutch 
es,  and  the  great  hands  rested  on  the  little  woman's  shoul 
der,  as  he  said  softly  : 

"  Widder,  not  that.  I  don't  ask  you  to  love  me,  A 
man  who  truly  loves  a  woman  don't  never  ask  to  be 


175 

loved.     He  only  asks  of  heaven  and  of  her,  permission 
to  love." 

"  And  I  give  you  permission,"  answered  the  brave  little 
lady,  and  the  grizzled  old  miner  knew  his  fortune  and 
his  happiness  were  secure. 


III. 


THE  sharp  silver  horn  of  the  clear  curled  moon — hang 
ing  so  low  in  the  marvellous  sky  of  Colorado  it  seemed 
you  might  tiptoe  up  and  touch  it  from  the  hill-top — slid 
hastily  down  behind  Pike's  Peak  on  this  evening,  as  if 
it  did  not  like  to  see  what  was  about  to  happen. 

This  was  in  the  earlier  days  of  Colorado,  when  miners 
slept  on  their  newly  discovered  claims.  A  wall  of  rock 
and  debris  from  the  mine  made  a  sort  of  fortress  against 
the  savage  and  the  storm. 

This  mine  here  at  Boulder  Canon  was  a  new  discovery 
— the  richest,  the  most  marvellously  rich  that  ever  yet 
had  been  found.  But  as  all  this  has  been  said  of  nearly 
every  discovery,  these  glaring  adjectives  add  but  little 
to  the  outline  of  this  crude  little  sketch.  This  claim, 
like  all  other  fearfully  rich  ones,  was  also  for  sale.  That 
was  why  it  was  so  rich.  That  was  why  all  sorts  of  peo 
ple  from  all  sorts  of  places  came  straggling  in  through 
the  narrow  passes  left  in  the  walls  to  where  Colonel  Bill 


176  MEMO  III  E    AND    RIME. 

Williams  and  his  friends  grouped  about  their  pine-knot 
fire  under  the  stars  of  Colorado. 

Old  Kit,  the  last  of  the  trappers,  a  withered,  dried-up 
old  man  ready  to  blow  away  like  a  leaf  into  the  river  of 
death— a  man  who  had  held  possession  of  all  this  land  of 
gold  long  years  before — sat  moodily  aside  smoking  his 
last  pipe  of  tobacco.  Suddenly  he  started  up,  or  rather 
half  undoubted,  with  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"  What's  that?" 

"  Guess  you've  got  -em  agin,  Kit." 

"  Got  'em  agin  ?  It  was  a  woman,  I  tell  you.  But  I 
forgot,  you  new  fellers  can't  hear  like  old  Mountain  Kit. 
Yes,  thar  it  is  agin  ?  Injin  women  up  yonder  !  Injin 
women  in  trouble.  Somebody's  after  'em,'5  muttered 
the  old  man,  as  he  again  doubled  up  and  silently  sucked 
his  pipe-stem. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder.  Snagly,  the  agent,  is  red-hot 
after  Madge,  you  know,"  squeaked  out  the  little  doctor. 

"  Yes,  Madge  and  her  old  mother  have  got  away  from 
the  Reservation  again,"  growled  Ginger. 

"  And  is  he  goin'  to  take  Madge  back  ?"  queried  Kit, 
sympathetically,  as  he  again  half  undoubted  and  shuffled 
forward. 

"Take  her  back,  if  it  takes  the  whole  United  States 
Army,"  said  Ginger,  savagely. 

"  Poor  gal,  poor  gal  !"  mused  the  old  trapper.  "  Why, 
her  father,  boys,  was  white.  Yes,  white  as — as — well 
now,  he  was  white  as  the  whitest.  And  as  for  Madge, 
why,  she's  whiter  herself  than  that  agent  is." 

The  old  man  was  full  of  rage,  and  stood  almost  erect. 

"  Now,  you  look  here,"  and  Ginger,  like  the  bully  that 
he  was,  came  close  up  to  the  old  trapper,  "  Snagly  the 
Indian  agent,  is  a  pard  of  mine  in  a  tradin'  post.  And 
you  just  go  slow.  If  he  wants  that  gal  he'll  have  her." 


"COLORADO  MADGE."  177 

"  Have  her,  will  lie?  "Well,  not  while  old  Mountain 
Kit  can  lift  a  fist,  he  won't.  Now,  do  you  just  stick  a 
pin  there." 

But,  from  the  manner  of  the  miners,  it  was  clear 
enough  that  neither  Madge  nor  any  of  her  unhappy  race 
had  friends  in  that  camp  other  than  the  old  trapper. 

Suddenly  Madge  stood,  or  rather  crouched,  as  a  hunted 
wild  beast  might  crouch,  right  there  in  their  midst.  Of 
course  she  had  come  in  through  the  narrow  pass  in  the 
stone  wall  that  had  been  thrown  up  there  by  the  long 
strong  arm  of  the  now  resting  derrick  ;  but  no  one  had 
seen  her  enter.  She  had  come  as  silent  and  sudden  as 
the  moon  had  gone.  Her  limbs  were  as  supple  as  the 
panther's — her  footfall  as  light.  She  looked  to  be  only 
a  waif — a  hungry,  tired  beggar.  She  had  a  spotted  skin 
over  her  shoulder,  a  short,  tattered  petticoat  hung  from 
her  waist  ;  her  feet  were  naked  ;  her  breast  was  almost 
bare,  save  the  storm  of  hair  that  hung  and  blew  about 
her  shoulders  as  she  crouched  there  looking  back,  as  if 
she  feared  she  was  followed,  trembling,  starting,  quiver 
ing,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe. 

"  Hello,  Madge,  what's  the  row  now  ?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  The  stern  and  unfriendly 
voice  of  Colonel  Bill  Williams  and  the  half  sneer  on  the 
faces  of  all  showed  her  at  a  glance  that  she  had  not  fallen 
among  friends. 

"Madge,  why  don't  you  claim  to  be  white  and  stay 
with  the  whites  ?  You  have  a  right  to  do  that,  and  then 
they  can't  take  you  to  the  Reservation  at  all,"  added  the 
colonel,  more  kindly. 

Should  she  open  her  proud  lips  to  utter  the  scorn  she 
felt  for  a  race  who  could  treat  her  and  her  people  as  they 
were  treated  I  Should  she  stoop  to  say,  My  mother  is 
starving  up  yonder  on  the  rocks  only  a  stone's  throw 


178  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

away,  where  she  is  hiding  from  the  man- hunters  ?  Did 
it  need  any  words  to  tell  these  men  that  she  would  live 
or  die  with  her  mother  and  her  mother's  people  ? 

"  Say,  Madge,  you  could  get  a  job  down  at  the  Hurdy 
Gurdy  House  to  sing  and  dance  if  you'd  claim  to  be 
white  ;  then  you  could  get  some  clothes,"  urged  the 
colonel,  as  he  looked  at  her  thin,  bare  arms,  while  she 
still  stood  trembling,  looking  back  listening,  her  nostrils 
extended,  her  pale  lips  set  in  silence. 

Ginger,  meantime,  had  risen  and  moved  cautiously 
around  toward  the  door  or  entrance  through  the  great 
high  stone  wall,  and,  before  she  could  guess  what  it 
meant,  he  stood  between  her  arid  her  beloved  mountains. 
She  was  a  prisoner.  The  hard,  merciless  man  laughed 
wickedly  as  he  threw  his  strong  arm  before  her  when 
she  was  about  to  spring  past  him  and  escape. 

She  had  not  spoken  yet.  But  now  she  turned  about, 
half  threw  up  her  hands  in  sign  of  submission,  and  for 
the  first  time  stood  erect. 

She  was  tall,  and,  had  she  not  been  starving,  she  would 
have  been  strangely,  savagely,  fearfully  beautiful.  Had 
she  been  well  clad  and  cared  for,  she  would  at  that 
moment  have  looked  the  royal  princess  in  body  that  she 
was  in  soul.  But  this  wild  rose,  set  thick  with  thorns, 
was  only  a  bud  that  perhaps  would  never  blossom. 

These  men  all  had  seen  her  before.  This  canon,  this 
land,  these  mountains  were  her  home,  her  inheritance. 
She  had  played  when  a  child  with  the  shiny  bits  of  gold 
and  silver  that  these  strong  men  were  going  mad  over 
now.  Her  people  had  galloped  their  horses  over  all  this 
gold  for  a  thousand  years.  But  now  the  white  man 
had  come  and  was  digging,  digging,  digging  everywhere 
— digging  graves  for  body  and  for  soul. 

Yes,  all  these  men  knew  Madge  very  well — her  pride 


"COLORADO    MADGE."  179 

and  her  recklessness.  Not  a  man  there  that  did  not  know 
how  impregnable  was  this  girl's  virtue,  how  she  scorned 
and  despised  them  every  one,  too. 

Ginger  sat  himself  down  on  a  rock  near  by  the  pass 
in  the  wall  and  waited  for  Snagly,  the  agent,  whom  he 
knew  was  after  her  and  would  soon  be  there.  The  girl 
moved  about  the  inclosure  dimly  lighted  by  the  flaring 
pine  knots,  but  did  not  speak.  This  was  a  wild  beast 
that  had  been  caught  in  a  cage.  She  was  gliding  about 
as  if  to  try  the  bars,  to  see  how  to  escape  from  the  cage. 
At  last  her  eyes  fell  on  a  little  uncovered  tin  bucket  back 
among  the  buffalo  robes  and  blankets.  She  leaned  over 
cautiously  and  looked  at  its  contents.  It  was  full  of 
provisions— sandwiches  and  a  roast  fowl  for  somebody's 
supper.  The  girl  glanced  up  toward  the  rugged  moun 
tain  above  her.  Then  she  measured  the  height  of  the 
stone  wall  before  her.  Her  black  eyes  gleamed  with  a 
terrible  purpose.  Her  mother  was  starving  up  there. 
She  was  going  to  steal  this,  leap  up  and  over  that  wall 
like  a  starving  wolf  and  save  her  mother,  who  would  die 
rather  than  surrender  and  go  back  to  the  Keservation. 

Old  Kit,  bent,  broken,  helpless,  had  sat  all  this  time 
back  obscurely  in  the  corner  ;  but  his  eyes,  his  every 
sense,  had  followed  and  understood  her.  He  came  out 
from  his  place  and  sat  between  the  flaring  and  fitful  pine- 
knot  light  and  the  little  tin  bucket.  But  how  could  he 
help  her,  this  man  who  could  not  even  help  himself? 
The  girl  did  not  seem  to  notice  him,  or  indeed  to  see  any 
one  now.  She  stretched  her  long  slender  arms  just  once, 
as  if  to  make  certain  that  they  were  free  ;  she  drew  the 
thong  that  girdled  her  a  little  together,  put  the  storm  of 
midnight  hair  back  a  little  from  about  her  piercing  eyes, 
and  that  was  all.  She  had  not  spoken  one  word.  She 
had  not  even  deigned  to  look  at  the  man  who  sat  keeping 


180  MEMORIE    AXD    RIME. 

watch  at  the  narrow  little  pass  through  the  great  ugly 
wall.  Only  old  Kit  seemed  to  suspect  her  purpose. 

The  miners  talked  in  little  groups  together  about  their 
mines.  They  had  forgotten  the  girl  was  there.  At 
length  she  seemed  ready.  She  threw  her  hand  up  to  her 
ear  as  if  listening,  looked  up  the  ugly  cliff  above  her 
where  her  mother  was  hiding  and  starving,  looked  hard 
at  the  steep  and  savage  stone  wall  before  her,  and  then 
darting  down  like  a  hawk,  she  caught  up  the  little  bucket 
and  leaped  across  the  open  space  at  a  bound  and  on  up 
the  stone  wall. 

Up,  up  !  She  stops.  It  is  too  steep  for  her  failing 
strength.  The  jagged  quartz  cuts  her  feet  and  hands 
till  the  white  wall  of  rock  is  red.  Her  hands  relax  their 
hold  on  the  sharp  rock,  and  she  falls  back  bleeding  and 
bruised  at  the  very  feet  of  the  man  who  had  sprung  for 
ward  from  where  he  was  keeping  watch  at  the  pass  in 
the  wall. 

"Now,  what  do  you  mean?"  called  out  the  colonel. 

66  Told  you  so  !"  shouted  Ginger,  as  he  took  her  by 
the  hair  and  forced  her  to  rise. 

"  Injins  will  be  Injins,  boys,"  said  the  doctor,  and  he 
picked  up  and  set  aside  the  little  bucket. 

"  Now,  I  guess  you'll  help  me  keep  her  here  till 
Snagly  comes,  won't  you?  I  seed  you  fellers  lookin' 
dark  at  me  as  I  sat  there,  you  in  particular,  colonel. 
Well,  now,  don't  you  see  I'm  right  ?  Injins  is  Injins. 
It's  the  cussed  bad  blood  that's  in  'em.  The  Injin  will 
out  every  time." 

"  Yes,  send  the  little  cuss  back  to  the  Eeservation. 
Let  Snagly  have  her  if  you  like,"  said  the  colonel,  as  he 
brushed  the  dirt  from  a  bruised  knee  and  limped  around 
to  the  other  side  of  the  fire.  For  he,  too,  had  sprung 
up  and  tried  to  reach  the  girl  when  he  saw  her  about  to 


"COLORADO    MADGE."  181 

fall.  But  whether  to  help  or  harm  was  not  certain  to 
any  one. 

At  mention  of  the  Reservation  the  girl  became  wild 
and  desperate.  She  threw  herself  imploringly  before 
the  strong,  bearded  colonel,  and  lifted  her  face  as  in 
piteous  prayer. 

kt  Well,  what  did  yon  go  and  steal  for?" 

Still  the  girl  did  not  speak.  But  now  she  could  not 
lift  her  face.  Her  eyes  fell  to  the  ground,  and  she  stood 
mute,  motionless — all  bowed  and  broken  before  him  as 
he  accused  her. 

"  Madge,  if  yon  hadn't  stole  my  dinner  ;  if  you  hadn't 
clone  that,  Madge,  I'd  let  you  go.  Yes,  I  would  ;  hang 
it,  gal,  I'm  sorry  for  you  ;  yes,  I  am,  and  if  you  hadn't 
stole  that  little  bucket,  my  gal,  I'd  a  chucked  that  Gin 
ger  out  of  that  door  before  two  minutes  more  and  let 
you  go  ;  yes  I  would,  Madge.  But  you  see  now  I  can't, 
for  you've  stole." 

The  trembling  old  trapper  staggered  forward,  and, 
standing  between,  cried  wildly  : 

"She  didn't  steal  !     I  stole  it  and  I  giv  it  to  her." 

"  What,  you — you,  old  trapper  Kit  ?" 

"  Yes,  I — I,  old  trapper  Kit.  Xow  let  her  go,  won't 
you?" 

"  Yes,  I  will.  .Go,  gal,"  and  the  man  pointed  to  the 
pass  in  the  ugly  wall. 

Just  as  he  spoke  there  was  a  rattle  of  boot-nails  over 
the  boulders  in  the  little  narrow  pass,  and  Snagly,  the 
Indian  agent,  followed  by  an  officer  of  the  United  States 
Army,  and  two  men,  with  manacles  at  their  wrists,  en 
tered  the  little  enclosure.  The  Indian  agent — the  man- 
hunter,  with  the  United  States  Army  at  his  back- 
stopped  there  and  glared  at  her.  The  girl  lifted  her  face 
now  in  silent  petition  to  every  man  there.  One  after  one, 


182  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

as  her  eyes  met  theirs,  they  turned  away  without  a  word, 
shaking  their  heads  sullenly.  Three  centuries  of  hatred 
toward  the  Indian  was  in  their  blood. 

"  Caught  at  last,  eh  ?"  triumphantly  chuckled  the  In7 
dian  agent,  as  he  at  length  came  forward,  followed  by 
the  men  with  manacles  at  their  waists.  He  stood  before 
her,  gloating  at  her  utter  discomfiture  and  helplessness. 
Now  she  should  be  his — his  at  last,  body  and  soul. 

She  stood  up,  tall  no  longer.  Her  eyes  had  lost  their 
lustre,  her  long,  bony  arms  hung  down,  low  down,  tired, 
so  tired  now.  Her  magnificence  of  hair  mantled  her. 
Her  breast  lifted  a  little.  That  was  all.  What  could 
she  have  been  thinking  about  ? 

The  fire  burned  low  at  her  feet.  The  stars  above  her 
— every  one— came  out,  stealthily,  as  it  were,  on  tiptoe, 
and  peeped  through  the  key-holes  of  heaven  to  see  what 
the  United  States  was  doing  there  now  under  the  vast 
free  skies  of  Colorado. 

"  Caught  at  last,  eh  ?"  again  ejaculated  the  brutal  In 
dian  agent,  as  he  took  one  step  nearer  to  the  trembling 
child,  as  if  about  to  lay  hold  of  her. 

"  Caught,  caught  !  Why,  mon,  you  speak  of  her  as 
if  she  were  a  dog  for  the  pound."  The  brawny  Scotch 
man  who  said  this  had  just  unrolled  himself  from  a  pile 
of  blankets  back  under  the  other  wall,  where  he  had 
taken  shelter  after  a  hard  day's  digging.  He  was  a  for 
eigner,  and  of  a  race  slow  to  comprehend.  He  was  now, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  fugitive  entered  the  enclos 
ure,  getting  pretty  well  awake. 

The  agent  only  looked  at  the  stranger  and  then  mo 
tioned  his  men  to  approach.  The  officer,  who  evidently 
did  not  like  his  work,  was  slow  to  obey  his  master,  the 
Indian  agent. 

"  Oh,  save  me  from  that  man — from  that  man  of  all  !" 


183 

at  last  cried  the  girl,  throwing  herself  before  the  kindly 
officer.  "  I  will  die  rather  than  be  taken.  Oh,  you  did 
save  me  once,  you  did  help  me  once  to  escape — " 

u  Quiet !  You  will  betray  me  and  ruin  nil.  I  dare 
not  help  you,  Madge,  where  the  agent  is." 

"  But  it  is  death  to  be  taken.  Oh,  it  is  more  than 
death!" 

"  Well,  now,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that,  Madge  !  If 
Snagly  wants  you,  you  go  back,"  said  Ginger,  familiar 
ly  coming  forward. 

"But  see  how  she  trembles.  This  will  kill  her," 
protested  the  officer. 

"Oh,  she's  just  making  out!  Say,  where  did  you 
sleep  last  night  ?"  called  out  the  red-headed  ruffian. 

The  girl  shrank  from  the  monster  and  crouched  before 
the  stranger,  as  if  he  could  help  her.  Then,  turning 
to  the  ruffian,  she  cried,  as  she  threw  her  long,  bony 
arms  in  the  air,  and  pointed  to  the  rocks  above  : 

k '  Where  was  I  last  night  ?  Up  yonder  on  the  high, 
rocky  ledge,  with  my  poor  starving  mother,  hiding  ! 
hiding  !  hiding  from  him  and  his  men  !  And  there 
were  rattlesnakes  there  in  the  rocks,  rattling  and  hissing 
all  night  as  we  lay  crouching,  hiding,  starving  !" 

"  Poor,  poor  lass  !"  muttered  the  foreigner. 

"  Oh,  why  is  this  ?  You  all  can  come  and  go  at  will. 
But  I — I  am  hunted  down  like  a  wolf.  Why  is  this  ?" 

"  Bah,  you  Injin,  don't  take  on  like  that,"  sneered 
the  agent,  as  he  again  approached.  "  Come,  your  moth 
er  must  go  back  to  the  Eeservation.  Don't  you  want  to 
go  back  too  ?" 

"  I'd  rather  die  !"  and  with  an  instinct  that  saw  some 
thing  kindly  in  the  face  of  this  quiet  but  determined 
foreigner,  she  turned  to  him  again  and  pleaded,  "  Oh,  sir, 
long,  long  ago,  my  father  lived  and  was  rich  in  horses 


184  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

and  gold  in  yonder  mountains — long,  so  long  ago,  it 
seems,  for  I  was  happy  then,  and  oh,  so  wretched  now  ! 
Long,  long  ago,  and  he  loved  me,  and  called  me  Margie. 
But  now,  down  at  that  Reservation  they  mock  at  me 
when  I  pass,  and  call  me  Madge,  Colorado  Madge,  Injin 
Madge.  Oh,  I  could  kill  them — kill  them,  every 


one  !" 


The  Indian  agent  in  the  name  of  the  United  States  was 
growing  angry  and  impatient.  He  began  to  fear  that  pos 
sibly  this  girl  might  move  this  man's  pity,  and  some 
how  at  last  escape  him.  He  advanced  closer,  and  rough 
ly  laid  hold  of  her  shoulder. 

t(  Come,  come  now,  I  want  to  be  gentle  with  you. 
But,  remember,  1  am  your  lawful  guardian,  and  I  must 
take  you  back.  Come,  go  back  peacefully  under  my 
protection." 

The  girl  sprang  from  him  and  threw  back  her  hair. 
Her  whole  form  shook,  but  it  was  not  with  fear  now. 

"Your  protection!  Your  protection!  What  is  it? 
To  see  my  mother's  people  sicken  and  perish  on  the 
deadly  Reservation,  with  only  the  Great  Spirit  to  heed 
or  to  pity  them  ?  To  see  a  race  of  warriors  die  in  savage 
silence,  while  your  Great  Father  at  Washington,  and  his 
chiefs  about  him,  hug  themselves  in  happiness  and 
boast  to  the  world  of  peace  and  prosperity  in  the  land  ? 
Your  protection  !  What  is  it  ?  To  see  little  children 
starve  that  you  may  grow  rich  ?  To  see  helpless  women 
debased  ?  To  bear  your  insults,  your  persecutions  ? 
Yours,  yes,  yours  !  No  !  no  !  I'd  rather  live  with  the 
rattlesnakes  !' ' 

"  Now,  look  here,  none  of  that  !  Remember,  I  don't 
take  one  more  word  of  insult.  So  come.  And  come 
right  along  now." 

The   brute    clutched  her  thin  shoulder  angrily,  and 


"COLORADO    MADGE."  185 

threw  her  toward  the  two  men  with  the  manacles  as  he 
spoke. 

But  the  girl  sprang  back  to  the  side  of  the  stranger, 
and,  half  hiding  there  as  the  agent  again  attempted  to 
take  her,  cried  out  in  her  desperation  : 

"  Don't  you  touch  me  !  Don't  you  dare  to  touch  me, 
or  I  will  kill  you  !" 

"!N"ae,  don't  you  touch  the  lass  !  Don't  you  dare  to 
touch  her !  If  you  do,  begad,  sir,  I'll—  The 
mighty  fist  was  in  the  air,  but  he  was  too  angry  to  finish 
the  sentence.  lie  did  not  want  to  talk  now.  He 
wanted  to  fight. 

Snagly,  the  Indian  agent  in  the  name  of  the  United 
States,  fell  back  before  the  lifted  fist  of  this  foreigner 
and  the  gleaming  eyes  of  the  half-crazed  girl,  and 
cried  : 

6t  Captain,  I  call  upon  you  to  enforce  my  authority. 
Arrest  and  deliver  me  that  girl  !" 

"  You  wretch  !"  muttered  the  officer,  between  his 
teeth,  as  he  drew  his  sword  ;  then,  hesitating,  he  let  its 
point  fall  to  the  ground.  Whether  he  had  drawn  his 
sword  for  the  agent  or  the  stranger  was  not  certain. 

u  Oh,  you  will  help  me!"  cried  the  girl  to  the 
officer. 

"  Madge,  Madge  !  A  soldier  can  only  obey  orders. 
Alas  !  the  laws  make  this  man  my  master.  An  Indian 
agent  commands  the  army  !" 

Once  more  Snagly  attempted  to  lay  hold  of  the 
almost  frenzied  girl.  But  the  man  from  under  England's 
nag  threw  him  back  and  turned  to  the  girl. 

"  Come  here,  me  lass  !"  And  throwing  one  arm 
about  her  he  shook  his  fist  at  Snagly.  "  You,  stop 
there.  There's  the  line  !  Xow  you  cross  that,  and  if  I 
don't  knock  you  down,  blow  me !  No  true  Briton 


186  MEMORIE   AXD    RIME. 

allows  any  innocent  lass  to  be  put  in  chains,  whether  she 
be  red  or  black  or  white,  and  I  am  a  son  of  bonnie 
Briton  !" 

"  Well,  son  of  Briton  you  may  be,  but  this  ain't 
British  soil,1'  shouted  Snagly.  The  stranger  started 
at  this ;  he  held  his  head  in  thought,  and  Snagly  con 
tinued  :  "  No,  you  ain't  on  British  soil  here  !" 

"Not  on  British  soil.  Not  on  brave  old  Britain's 
soil."  The  man  said  this  as  to  himself,  arid  then, 
slowly,  tenderly,  pitifully,  lifting  up  the  now  almost 
prostrate  child,  he  handed  her  toward  the  agent,  saying  : 
"Well,  then,  me  poor,  poor  lass,  I'll  have  to  giv^e  ye 
up.  I  can't  save  you,  lass,  I  can't.  Here,  sir,  take  her. 
But  please,  sir,  treat  her  gently.  She's  only  a  poor, 
friendless  lass,  sir.  Treat  her  gently,  I  implore  you  !" 

"  Mind  your  own  affairs,  and  keep  your  advice  to 
yourself,"  cried  Snagly,  as  he  again  clutched  the  girl 
and  threw  her  toward  the  men.  4i  There  !  Iron  her  !" 

The  girl  no  longer  resisted  or  remonstrated  now.  Her 
head  bent  very  low.  Meekly  and  mechanically  her  two 
bony  little  hands  fell  across  each  other  to  receive  the 
cold  rattling  shackles.  Her  hair  hung  down  about  her 
bended  face,  as  if  to  hide  the  blush  of  shame  that  mantled 
it  in  her  captivity. 

The  rnouth  of  Colonel  Bill  Williams  had  been  working  ; 
had  been  watering  to  devour  that  monster,  the  agent  of 
these  United  States.  His  hands  had  clutched  till  his 
h'nger-nails  nearly  drew  blood  from  his  palms.  But  the 
rattle  of  chains  now  seemed  to  awaken  him  to*  a  sense  of 
the  awful  insult  that  was  being  put  upon  his  country, 
his  manhood,  and  his  presence.  He  caught  up  the 
nearest  thing  at  hand — a  pick  that  leaned  against  the 
wall ;  he  dashed  forward,  throwing  the  men  with  their 
manacles  to  the  ground,  and  roared  with  the  voice  of  a 


''COLORADO    MADGE."  187 

Numidian  lion,  as  he  cleared  tlie  way  f or  the  girl  through 
the  ugly  wall. 

"  Well,  if  this  ain't  British  soil  it  is  God  Almighty's 
soil,  and  you  can't  iron  her  !  There,  girl ! — go,  as  free 
as  the  winds  of  Colorado  !" 

The  girl  started  up  with  all  the  grateful  remembrance  of 
her  race  in  the  single  glance  she  gave  her  deliverers,  and 
she  passed  out,  with  her  face  lifted  to  the  cliff  above. 
And  old  Kit  stood  there  as  she  passed,  and  adroitly 
forced  something  into  her  brown  hand  for  the  hungry 
mother  on  the  rocky  hill.  Surely,  with  "the  contents  of 
the  little  tin  bucket  went  a  God's  blessing  on  her  from 
the  heart  of  every  man  there,  save  and  except  the  agent 
of  these  United  States  and  the  cowering  red-headed 
deputy. 


The  body  is  not  much.     '  Ticere  best 
Take  up  the  soul  and  leave  the  rest. 
It  seems  to  me  the  man  who  leaves 
The  soul  to  perish,  is  as  one 
Who  gathers  up  the  empty  sheaves 
When  all  the  golden  grain  is  done. 


V. 
RHYMES  FOE  THE  EIGHT. 


TO  RUSSIA. 
1  Where  wast  thou  when  I  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth  1"— Bible. 

WHO  tamed  your  lawless  Tartar  blood  ? 

What  David  bearded  in  her  den 

The  Russian  bear  in  ages  when 
You  strode  your  black,  unbridled  stud, 
A  skin-clad  savage  of  the  steppes  ? 
Why  one  who  now  sits  low  and  weeps, 
Why  one  who  now  wails  out  to  you — 
The  Jew,  the  homeless,  hated  Jew. 

Who  girt  the  thews  of  your  young  prime 
And  bound  your  fierce,  divided  force? 
Why,  who  but  Moses  shaped  your  course 

United  down  the  grooves  of  time  ? 

Your  mighty  millions,  all  to-day 

The  hated,  homeless  Jews  obey. 

Who  taught  all  histories  to  you  ? 

The  Jew,  the  hated,  homeless  Jew. 

Who  taught  yon  tender  "Bible  tales 

Of  honey-lands,  of  milk  and  wine? 

Of  happy,  peaceful  Palestine  ? 
Of  Jordan's  holy  harvest-vales  ? 
Who  gave  the  patient  Christ  ?     I  say, 
Who  gave  your  Christian  creed  ?     Yea,  yea, 
Who  gave  your  very  God  to  you  '? 
The  Jew  !     The  Jew  !     The  hated  Jew  ! 


MEMORIE   AND   RIME. 


MOTHER  EGYPT. 

DARK-BROWED  she  broods  with  weary  lids 

Beside  her  Sphynx  and  Pyramids, 

With  low  and  never-lifted  head. 

If  she  be  dead,  respect  the  dead  ; 

If  she  be  weeping,  let  her  weep  ; 

If  she  be  sleeping,  let  her  sleep  ; 

For  lo,  this  woman  named  the  stars  ! 

She  suckled  at  her  tawny  dugs 
Your  Moses  while  you  reeked  in  wars 

And  prowled  your  woods,  nude,  painted  thugs. 

Then  back,  brave  England,  back  in  peace 

To  Christian  isles  of  fat  increase  ! 

Go  back  !    Else  bid  your  high  priest  take 

Your  great  bronze  Christs  and  cannon  make  ; 

Take  down  their  cross  from  proud  St.  Paul's 

And  coin  it  into  cannon  balls  ! 

You  tent  not  far  from  Nazareth. 

Your  camp  spreads  where  His  child  feet  strayed. 
If  Christ  had  seen  this  work  of  death  ! 

If  Christ  had  seen  these  ships  invade  ! 

I  think  the  patient  Christ  had  said, 

"  Go  back,  brave  men  !     Take  up  your  dead  ; 

Draw  down  your  great  ships  to  the  seas  : 

Repass  the  gates  of  Hercules. 

Go  back  to  wife  with  babe  at  breast, 

And  leave  lorn  Egypt  to  her  rest." 

Is  Christ  then  dead  as  Egypt  is  ? 

Ah,  Mother  Egypt,  torn  in  twain  ! 
There's  something  grimly  wrong  in  this — 

So  like  some  gray,  sad  woman  slain. 

What  would  you  have  your  mother  do  ? 
Hath  she  not  done  enough  for  you  ? 
Go  back  !     And  when  you  learn  to  read, 
Come  read  this  obelisk.     Her  deed 
Like  yonder  awful  forehead  is 
Disdainful  silence  like  to  this. 


RHYMES    FOR   THE    RIGHT.  191 

What  lessons  have  you  raised  in  stone 

To  passing  nations  that  shall  stand  ? 
Like  years  to  hers  will  leave  you  lone 

And  level  us  yon  yellow  sand. 

St.  George,  your  lions,  whence  are  they  ? 

From  awful,  silent  Africa. 

This  Egypt  is  the  lion's  lair  ; 

Beware,  young  Albion,  beware  ! 

I  know  the  very  Nile  shall  rise 

To  drive  you  from  this  sacrifice. 

And  if  the  seven  plagues  should  come, 

The  red  seas  swallow  sword  and  steed. 
Lo  !  Christian  lands  stand  mute  and  dumb 

To  see  thy  more  than  Moslem  deed. 


MIRIAM. 

YEA,  thou  and  I  for  wondrous  seas, 

Seas  emptied  wide  of  merchant  sail, 
With  prows  set  seaward  and  a  breeze 
That  breaks  and  gathers  to  a  gale  : 
Sail  on  !  God  with  us,  we  will  go, 

With  never  shred  of  canvas  furled, 
To  seek,  where  only  God  may  know, 
Some  holy  Isle  of  under-world  ; 
Thou  and  I, 
Just  thou  and  I. 

What  leaden  shapes  are  these,  that  cling 

And  crowd  our  decks  and  load  us  down  ? 
Come  !  cast  in  sea  each  sodden  thing  ; 
Let  these  turn  back  or  let  them  drown. 

They  would  not  know  the  wondrous  sea, 
They  could  not  love  the  lonely  Isles  ; 
Once  rid  of  these,  well  rid  of  these, 
We  sail  a  million  shining  miles  ; 
Thou  and  I, 
Sweet  thou  and  I. 


MEMORIE   AND    11IME. 

Yea,  haply  now  mid  hush  and  peace, 

Far,  far  as  sea-lost  star  is  seen, 
God's  hand  is  lifting  from  the  seas 
Some  Isle  of  splendor  for  my  queen. 

Sing  palm -set  land  in  God's  right  hand. 

"With  opal  sea  and  ardent  sky, 
Where  only  thou  and  I  may  land — 
May  land  and  love  for  aye  and  aye  ; 
Thou  and  I, 
Christ,  thou  and  I. 


JEWESS. 

MY  dark-browed  daughter  of  the  sun, 
Bear  Bedouin  of  the  desert  sands, 
Sad  daughter  of  the  ravished  lands, 
Of  savage  Sinai,  Babylon, — 

0  Egypt-eyed,  thou  art  to  me 
A  God-encompassed  mystery  ! 

1  see  sad  Hagar  in  thine  eyes  ; 
The  obelisks,  the  pyramids, 

Lie  hid  beneath  thy  drooping  lids. 
The  tawny  Nile  of  Moses  lies 
Portrayed  in  thine  own  people's  force 
And  proudest  mystery  of  source. 

The  black  abundance  of  thy  hair 

Falls  like  some  sad  twilight  of  June 

Above  the  dying  afternoon, 

And  mourns  thy  people's  mute  despair. 

The  large  solemnity  of  night, 

O  Israel,  is  in  thy  sight ! 

Then  come  where  stars  of  freedom  spill 
Their  splendor,  Jewess.     In  this  land, 
The  same  broad  hollow  of  God's  hand 
That  held  you  ever,  outholds  still. 
And  whether  you  be  right  or  nay, 
'Tis  God's,  not  Russia's,  here  to  say. 


RHYMES    FOR   THE    RIGHT.  193 


ILLINOIS. 

A  PISTOL  shot  next  my  own  garret  nest, 

And  with  face  like  a  god  he  lies  dead  and  alone  : 

Lies  stark  on  his  back  ;  a  hand  outthrown, 

As  disdaining  rest,  on  the  vanquished  breast, 

And  a  look  of  battle  in  his  glorious  eyes 

As  one  struck  dead  by  a  cannon  shot.  .  .  . 

Starved  or  dishonored  ?     It  matters  not  ; 

Nor  whether  betrayed  or  otherwise. 

I  only  know  that  he  fell  last  night  ; 

I  only  know  that  he  fights  no  more  ; 

I  only  know  that  he  fell  in  the  fight, 

Fighting  as  never  fought  man  before. 

Shot  dead  in  the  fight !     Not  a  syllable  known 
Of  name  or  of  place.     But  scratched  on  the  wall 
With  a  nail,  "  Illinois" — and  that  is  all. 
Then  deep  in  the  window  stands  all  alone 
And  tattered  and  torn,  like  a  flag  in  war, 
One  starved  stalk  of  corn  in  a  broken  jar. 
O  banner  of  corn,  with  sweet  memories 
Of  mother,  of  fields,  and  of  fruitful  trees  ! 
O  boy  from  the  furrows  of  Illinois  ! 

0  boy  with  thy  banner  to  the  topmost  wall, 

1  will  nourish  this  corn,  poor,  pitiful  boy, 
Till  I,  too,  vanquished,  shall  fighting  fall. 

Good  mother,  that  waits  in  the  far  corn-fields, 
He  will  never  come  back  to  your  arms  any  more, 
Grow  lilies  for  him  ;  his  battles  are  o'er. 
He  is  borne  to  his  rest  on  his  battle-shield.  . 
Good  mothers  that  wait,  wherever  you  are, 
Oh  !  pity  us,  pray  for  us  every  one 
That  has  left  sweet  fields  for  the  smoke  and  dun 
Of  the  City's  walls  in  this  ceaseless  war. 
How  oft  we  have  cried  :  O  Christ  for  the  fight  1 
When  soldiers  in  battle  rode  reckless  down 
And  stormed  in  a  day  and  so  took  the  town, 
Or,  sword  in  hand,  they  were  slain  outright ! 


194  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

0  ye  in  the  beautiful  fields  of  corn, 
Content  and  tranquil  and  far  away, 
Lift  up  your  hearts  and  be  glad  all  day  ; 
Lift  up  moist  eyes  like  the  dews  of  morn  ; 
For  I  tell  you  '  tis  harder  to  win  a  town 
And  to  hold  it  for  even  a  year  your  own. 
Than  ever  were  gates  when  kings  went  down 
With  army  and  banners  to  win  a  throne. 
Then  a  tear  for  the  soldier  who  fell  last  night, 
With  banner  of  corn  in  a  breach  of  the  wall ; 
For  to  every  hundred  that  win  this  fight 

1  tell  you  a  hundred  thousand  fall. 


WASHEE    WASHEE. 

BEOWN  JOHN  he  bends  above  his  tub  ; 

In  cellar,  alley,  anywhere 

Where  dirt  is  found,  why  John  is  there  ; 

And  rub  and  rub  and  rub  and  rub. 

The  hoodlum  hisses  in  his  ear  : 

"  Git  out  of  here,  you  yeller  scrub  !" 

He  is  at  work,  he  cannot  hear  ; 

He  smiles  that  smile  that  knows  no  fear  ; 

And  rub  and  rub  and  rub  and  rub, 

He  calmly  keeps  on  washing.  - 

''Git  out  o'  here  !  ye  hay  thin,  git  ! 
Me  Frinch  ancisthors  fought  an'  blid 
Fur  this  same  fraadom,  so  they  did, 
An'  I'll  presarve  it,  ye  can  bit ! 
Phwat  honest  man  can  boss  a  town  ? 
Or  burn  anither  Pittsburgh  down  ? 
Or  beg  ?    Or  sthrike  ?     Or  labor  shirk 
Phwile  yez  arc  here  an'  want  ter  work  ? 
Git  out,  I  say  !  ye  hay  thin,  git  !  " 
And  Silver  Jimmy  shied  a  brick 
That  should  have  made  that  heathen  sick  ; 
But  John,  he  kept  on  washing. 


RHYMES    FOR   THE    RIGHT.  195 

Then  mighty  Congress  shook  with  fear 
At  this  queer,  silent  little  man, 
And  cried,  as  ou\y  Congress  ran  : 
"  Stop  washing  and  git  out  of  here  !  " 
The  small  brown  man,  he  ceased  to  rub, 
And  raised  his  little  shaven  head 
Above  the  steaming,  sudsy  tub, 
And  unto  this  great  Congress  said, 
Straightforward,  business-like,  and  true : 
"Two  bittee  dozen  washee  you  !  " 
Then  calmly  went  on  washing. 

Oh  !  honest,  faithful  little  John, 
If  you  will  lay  aside  your  duds, 
And  take  a  sea  of  soap  and  suds 
And  wash  out  dirt}'  Washington  ; 
If  you  will  be  the  Hercules 
To  cleanse  our  Stables  clean  of  these 
That  all  such  follies  fatten  on, 
There's  fifty  million  souls  to-day 
To  bid  you  welcome,  bid  you  stay 
And  calmly  keep  on  washing. 


TO    EACH  EL    IX    RUSSIA. 

"To  bring  them  unto  a  good  laud  and  a  large  ;    unto  a  land  flowing  with 
milk  and  honey." 

O  THOU,  whose  patient,  peaceful  blood 
Paints  Sharon's  roses  on  thy  cheek, 
And  down  thy  breasts  plays  hide  and  seek, 
Six  thousand  years  a  stainless  flood, 
Rise  up  and  set  thy  sad  face  hence. 
Eise  up  and  come  where  Freedom  waits 
Within  these  white,  wide  ocean-gates 
To  give  thee  God's  inheritance  ; 
To  bind  thy  wounds  in  this  despair  ; 
To  braid  thy  long,  strong,  loosened  hair. 

O  Rachel,  weeping  where  the  flood 
Of  icy  Volga  grinds  and  flows 

Against  his  banks  of  blood-red  snows 

White  banks  made  red  with  children's  blood— 


196  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

Lift  up  thy  head,  be  comforted  : 
For,  as  thou  didst  on  manna  feed, 
When  Russia  roamed  a  bear  in  deed, 
And  on  her  own  foul  essence  fed, 
So  shalt  thou  nourish  as  a  tree 
When  Rusk  and  Cossack  shall  not  be. 

Then  come  where  yellow  harvests  swell ; 

Forsake  the  savage  land  of  snows  ; 

Forget  the  brutal  Russian's  blows  ; 

And  come  where  Kings  of  Conscience  dwell. 

O  come,  Rebecca  at  the  well  ! 

The  voice  of  Rachel  shall  be  sweet, 

The  Gleaner  rest  safe  at  the  feet 

Of  one  who  loves  her  ;  and  the  spell 

Of  Peace  that  blesses  Paradise 

Shall  kiss  thy  large  and  lonely  eyes. 


WE    SCRIBES. 

THE  builders  of  cities,  of  worlds,  are  we, 

The  unnamed  scribes,  and  of  unknown  worth  ; 
For  we  are  the  kinsmen  of  Progress,  and  he 

The  one  Prince  we  serve  on  the  whole  wide  earth. 
Nor  gold,  nor  glory,  nor  name  we  claim — 

We  ask  but  the  right,  unfettered  to  fight  ; 
To  name  a  wrong  by  its  shameless  name  ; 

To  slay  the  wrong  for  the  love  of  the  Right . 

The  sentries  of  cities,  of  worlds,  are  we, 

Each  standing  alone  on  his  high  watchtower  ; 
We  are  looking  away  to  the  land,  to  the  sea  ; 

We  have  only  a  lamp  in  the  midnight  hour. 
Then  leave  us  the  right  to  fight  or  to  fall, 

As  God  may  will,  in  the  front  of  the  fight, 
Unchallenged,  unquestioned  for  the  good  of  all, 

For  the  truth  that  lives,  for  the  love  of  the  Right. 

The  givers  of  glory  to  nations  are  we, 
The  builders  of  shafts  and  of  monuments 

To  soldiers  and  daring  great  men  of  the  sea  ; 
But  we  are  the  homeless,  strange  dwellers  in  tents, 


RHYMES    FOR   THE    RIGHT.  197 

With  never  a  tablet  or  high-built  stone. 

Yet  what  care  \ve  who  go  down  in  Ihe  fight, 
Though  we  live  unnamed,  though  we  die  unknown, 

If  only  we  live  and  we  die  for  the  Right  ? 

There  are  brighter  things  in  this  world  than  gold, 

There  are  nobler  things  in  this  world  than  name — 
To  silently  do  with  yoiir  deeds  untold, 

To  silently  die  unnoised  to  fame. 
Then  forth  to  the  fight,  unnamed  and  alone, 

Let  us  lead  the  world  to  its  destined  height  : 
Enough  to  know,  if  but  this  be  known, 

We  live  and  die  in  the  runks  for  the  Eight ! 


A    FLOWER    FROM    A    BATTLE-FIELD. 

The  cannon-shot  ploughed  these  fields  of  ours  long  ago 
deep  and  wide.  Some  flowers  have  grown  up  in  the 
furrows.  And  while  I  would  celebrate  no  battle  in 
song,  still  I  find  some  pitiful  little  incidents  growing  out 
of  our  late  dreadful  war  which  go  straight  to  the  heart. 
And  these  little  deeds  of  simple  and  unnamed  soldiers  will 
survive  the  brigadiers  all.  Here  is  a  little  incident  sent 
me  from  Indiana,  which  I  have  put  in  verse.  I  had 
long  ago  heard  of  the  old  \V  abash  schoolmaster  who 
nailed  up  his  cabin  school-house  and  marched  away  with 
his  scholars  to  the  war,  but  the  heart  of  the  story  is  new 
to  me. 

"GOING  rp  HEAD:''  AN  OLD  SOLDIER'S  STORY. 

THE  low  school-house  stood  in  a  green  Wabash  wood, 
Lookin'  out  on  long  levels  of  corn  like  a  sea — 
A  little  log  houSfe,  hard  benches — and  we, 

Big  barefooted  boys,  and  rotigh  'uns,  we  stood 
In  line  with  the  gals  and  tried  to  go  head 
At  spellin'  each  day  when  the  lessons  was  said. 


198  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

But  one,  Bally  Dean,  tall,  bony,  and  green 

As  green  corn  in  the  milk,  stood  fast  at  the  foot — 
Stood  day  after  day,  as  if  he'd  been  put 

A  soldier  on  guard  there,  did  poor  Bally  Dean. 
And  stupid  ;  God  made  him  so  stupid,  I  doubt- 
But  I  guess  God  who  made  us  knows  what  He's  about. 

He'd  a  long  way  to  walk.     But  he  wouldn't  once  talk 
Of  that,  nor  the  chores  for  his  mother,  who  lay 
A-shakin'  at  home.     Still,  de.y  after  day 

He  stood  at  the  foot  till  the  class  'gan  to  mock  ! 

Then  to  master  he  plead,  "  Oh,  I'd  like  to  go  head." 
Now  it  wasn'  t  so  much,  but  the  way  it  was  said. 

Then  the  war  struck  the  land  !     Why,  that  barefooted  band 
It  just  nailed  up  that  door,  and  the  very  next  day, 
With  master  for  Cap'n,  went  marchin'  away  ; 

And  Bally,  the  butt  of  the  whole  Wubash  band  ! 
But  he  bore  with  it  all,  yet  once  firmly  said, 
"When  I  get  back  home,  I m  a-goin'  up  head  !" 

Oh,  that  school-house  that  stood  in  the  wild  Wabash  wood  ! 
The  rank  weeds  were  growin',  white  ghosts  through  the  floor 
The  squirrels  hulled  nuts  on  the  sill  of  the  door, 

And  the  gals  stood  in  groups  scrapin'  lint  where  they  stood. 
And  we  boys  !  How  we  sighed  ;  how  we  sickened  and  died 
For  the  days  that  had  been,  for  a  place  at  their  side  ! 

Then  one,  fever-crazed,  and  his  better  sense  dazed 
And  dulled  with  heart-sickness,  all  duty  forgot  : 
Deserted,  was  taken,  condemned  to  be  shot ! 

And  Bally  Dean,  guardin'  his  comrade  half-crazed, 
Slow  paced  up  and  down  while  he  slept  where  he  lay 
In  the  tent  waitin'  death  at  the  first  flush  of  day. 

And  Bally  Dean  thought  of  the  boy  to  be  shot, 
Of  the  fair  girl  he  loved  in  the  woods  far  away  ; 
Of  the  true  love  that  grew  like  a  red  rose  of  May  ; 

And  he   stopped   where   he    stood,    and   he   thought   and    he 

thought. 

Then  a  sudden  star  fell,  shootin'  on  overhead, 
And  he  knew  that  his  mother  beckoned  on  to  the  dead. 


RHYMES    FOR   THE    RIGHT.  199 

And  he  said,  "  What  have  I?     Though  I  live,  though  I  die, 
Who  shall  care  for  me  now  ?"     Then  the  dull  muffled  drum 
Struck  his  ear,  and  he  knew  that  the  master  had  come 

With  the  squad.     And  he  passed  in  the  tent  with  a  sigh. 

Then  the  doomed  lad  crept  forth,  and  the  drowsy  squad  led, 
With  low-trailin'  guns  to  the  march  of  the  dead. 

Then,  with  face  turned  away  tow'rd  a  dim  streak  of  day, 
And  his  voice  full  of  tears,  the  poor  bowed  master  said, 
As  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  uncovered  his  head, 

"Come,  boys,  it  is  school-time,  let  us  all  pray." 
And  we  prayed.     And  the  lad  by  the  coffin  alone 
Was  tearless,  was  silent,  was  still  as  a  stone. 

"In  line,"  master  said,  and  he  stood  at  the  head  ; 
But  he  couldn't  speak  now.     So  he  drew  out  his  sword, 
And  dropped  the  point  low  for  the  last  fatal  word. 

Then  the  rifles  rang  out,  and  a  soldier  fell  dead  ! 

And  the  master  sprang  forward.     "  God  help  us,"  he  said, 
"  It  is  Bally,  poor  Bally,  and  he's  gone  up  head !" 


PETER  COOPER. 
DIED  1883. 

Give  honor  and  love  forevermore 
To  this  great  man  gone  to  rest ; 

Peace  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore, 
Rest  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 

J  reckon  him  greater  than  any  man 

That  ever  drew  sword  in  war ; 
I  reckon  him  nobler  than  king  or  khant 

Braver  and  better  by  far. 

And  wisest  he  in  this  whole  wide  land 
Of  hoarding  till  bent  and  gray  / 

For  all  you  can  hold  in  your  cold  dead  hand 
Is  what  you  have  given  away. 

So,  whether  to  wander  the  stars  or  to  rest 

Fbrever  hushed  and  dumb, 
He  gave  with  a  zest  and  he  gave  his  best 

And  deserves  the  best  to  come. 


VI. 
IN    MEMOEIAM. 


I. 

JOSEPH    LANE SENATOR. 

Died  1880. 

I  DO  not  know  where  General  Lane  was  born.  I  do 
not  care.  This  unimportant  fact  can  be  found  in  almost 
any  book  of  biographies,  however.  In  truth,  the  place 
of  a  man's  birth  or  death,  the  date  of  these  events,  are 
of  the  least  consequence.  The  world  is  so  full,  the  his 
tories  are  so  ill  led  with  illustrious  names,  that  one  who 
attempts  to  remember  the  dates  of  their  birth,  death,  and 
so  on,  is  in  danger  of  remembering  little  else.  I  doubt, 
indeed,  if  it  is  important  to  remember  a  man's  name  ex 
cept  in  so  far  as  it  stands  out  as  an  expression  signifying 
some  great  example  of  virtue  or  of  valor.  These  exam 
ples  by  the  wayside  of  life  as  we  walk  on,  lifting  up  like 
a  cross  on  an  altar  in  a  dark  night  with  a  lamp  burning— 
these  are  what  serve  us,  light  us,  do  us  good.  "We  need  the 
light.  We  do  not  really  need  to  know  even  the  name 
of  the  saint,  much  less  the  date  of  his  birth  or  death. 

Lane  first   became    known  as  a  member  of  Congress, 


MEMO  HI  E   AND    RIME. 

from  Indiana.  He  next  volunteered  as  a  private  soldier 
in  that  most  unnecessary  war  with  our  neighbor  republic. 
We  soon  hear  of  him  as  a  general.  He  is  named  "the 
Marion  of  the  Mexican  War"  in  the  despatches  of  the 
commander  of  the  American  armies.  Of  course  this  ap 
pellation  was  a  bit  of  affectation,  if  not  downright 
falsehood,  on  the  part  of  those  seeking  to  build  a  pedes 
tal  of  glory  for  themselves  on  the  inglorious  battlefields 
of  Mexico.  1  only  mention  the  circumstance  as  indicat 
ing  that  this  man  from  the  Wabash  wilds  probably 
did  his  bloody  work  well. 

I  would  prefer,  however,  to -omit  all  this  ugly  busi 
ness  of  unhappy  Mexico  from  his  life.  It  is  some  apolo 
gy  for  the  part  he  took  in  the  conquest  to  say  that  he 
was  then  young,  unread,  and  had  not  at  all  attained  to 
that  larger  growth  and  development  that  widened, 
refined,  and  made  beautiful  his  life  when  I  knew  and 
loved  him  in  his  maturity.  Aye,  small  glory  indeed  for 
any  man  who  took  part  in  the  murder  of  those  gallant 
Mexicans  who  fell  defending  their  capital.  Smaller 
glory,  even  shame  and  oblivion,  for  those  who  instituted 
this  brutal  war  of  invasion.  Let  our  historians  make  its 
page  as  brief  as  possible,  that  our  children  may  forget  it. 

Soon  after  returning  from  this  war  General  Lane  was 
sent  out  to  us  in  the  territory  of  Oregon  as  its  governor. 
He  located  and  settled  on  a  ranch  in  the  Umpqua  Yalley, 
in  the  central  part  of  what  is  now  the  State  of  Oregon, 
built  a  cabin,  and  with  his  own  hands  ploughed  and  plant 
ed  and  reaped  his  new  fields  like  any  other  farmer  and 
settler  in  the  wild  and  remote  West.  Here  it  was,  I 
should  say,  his  soul  was  born  and  began  to  grow.  In  this 
vast  solitude,  this  isolation  and  solemnity  of  his  cabin 
home,  with  wife  and  children  only,  for  weeks  and  months 
at  a  time,  going  to  the  little  village  called  the  capital 


JOSEPH    LANE — SENATOR.  203 

only  once  about  every  two  years,  this  germ  of  greatness, 
the  soul  that  was  in  him,  began  to  grow  and  glow  and  to 
be  beautiful.  And  it  grew  from  this  date  on  steadily 
and  upward,  as  a  growing  flower,  to  the  date  of  his  death, 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  later,  near  this  same 
isolated  spot.  In  the  great  Indian  war  that  swept  the 
land  from  Northern  California  to  British  America,  this 
man,  who  had  come  to  abhor  war,  was  compelled  to  leave 
his  little  home  and  lead  us  in  battle. 

It  was  a  desperate  time.  Even  my  Quaker,  peace-lov 
ing  father,  who  had  never  fired  a  gun  in  his  life,  was 
enrolled  as  a  soldier  and  shouldered,  not  a  gun,  but  an 
ox-whip,  and  drove  away  for  the  war.  I,  a  mere  lad,  lay 
wounded  under  the  trees,  when  an  express  rode  by  and 
gave  the  glad  news  that  General  Lane  was  coming  at  the 
head  of  all  Oregon,  in  arms.  I  never  saw  such  eiithu- 
siam.  lie  was  loved,  adored,  deified.  Battle  Rock,  the 
most  magnificent  natural  fortress  ever  seen — a  natural 
castle — was  another  lava  bed.  But  it  was  carried  by 
storm,  and  the  Oregonians  floated  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
on  the  summit  of  this  wonderful  battlement,  and  General 
Lane  went  back  to  his  plough.  But  the  mature  and  entire 
ly  thoughtful  man  had  even  more  time  to  read,  reflect, 
and  philosophize  now  than  before.  For  besides  other 
wounds,  his  right  arm  had  been  badly  shattered  by  a 
shot,  and  for  a  long  time  he  could  neither  swing  his  axe 
nor  follow  the  plough. 

When  Oregon  became  a  State,  Lane,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  was  sent  back  to  the  Federal  capital  as  Senator, 
and  right  here,  it  seems  to  me,  began  that  misunderstand 
ing  that  followed  him  to  the  end  and  induced  the  writing 
of  this  sketch. 

Lane  found,  after  long  years  of  absence,  the  Southern 
element  dominant  as  before.  He  found  it  more  than 


204  MEMORIE    AND    K1ME. 

dominant  ;  he  found  it  domineering,  insolent.  But  lie 
kept  with  the  South,  not  for  policy,  but  for  peace. 

Southern  Senators,  Southern  ladies,  flattered,  petted 
and  praised  this  man  from  the  far  Oregon,  called  him 
"the  Marion  of  the  Mexican  War,"  than  which  nothing 
could  now  be  more  distasteful,  for  his  soul  had  grown  to 
despise  all  that,  and  they  insisted  in  placing  this  peaceful 
and  peace-loving  Oregon  farmer  a.t  the  head  of  affairs. 

It  is  to  be  frankly  admitted,  however,  he  gradually, 
and  finally,  gracefully  yielded  to  this  policy.  And  at 
last,  when  he  was  named  as  the  possible  Democratic 
nominee  for  President,  I  regret  that  he  laid  aside  his 
grandeur  like  a  garment,  and  went  down  into  the  arena 
a  gladiator. 

But  his  was  no  brutal  fight  or  unfair  one.  I  invite 
attention  to  this  fact,  and  if  any  man  in  this  republic  can 
put  his  finger  on  an  unclean  spot  of  this  man's  Senatorial 
robes  from  the  day  he  put  them  on  till  his  defeat  as  the 
regular  Democratic  nominee  for  Yice-President,  and  his 
final  retirement,  let  it  be  done  now. 

It  would  open  the  flood-gates  of  contention  too  widely 
to  more  than  refer  to  Lane's  position  on  the  great  issue 
of  his  time.  I  can  only  insist  that  it  was  for  peace, 
peace,  all  the  time  peace,  and  yet  all  the  time  the  bel 
ligerent  South  kept  posing  him  for  a  hero  of  war — this 
man,  who  all  the  time  offered  peace  and  love  and  amity 
for  all,  who  all  the  time  wanted  to  get  back  to  his  plough 
and  his  pine  woods  of  Oregon.  My  letters  from  him  at 
this  time  breathe  but  this  one  thought.  He  wanted  to 
get  back,  get  out  of  it  all,  and  sit  under  the  oaks  and 
read  Plutarch  and  Marcus  Aurelius.  This  was  the  am 
bition,  the  desire  of  General  Joseph  Lane  at  the  time  he 
was  a  candidate  for  Yice-President  of  the  United  States, 
being  deified  by  one  party,  and  debased  by  the  other. 


JOSEPH    LAXE — SENATOR.  205 

I  am  compelled  to  speak  of  myself  somewhat  now,  to 
show  my  connection  with  this  great  man,  and  how  I  came 
to  know  and  love  him  well — better  than  any  other  man 
now  living,  outside  of  his  family,  perhaps. 

I  may  almost  say  literally,  this  man  taught  me  to  read. 
He  certainly  taught  me  to  like  to  read  the  books 
above  named,  along  with  perhaps  a  dozen  well-thumbed 
old  masters,  which  he  knew  so  well  that  if  a  single  word 
was  misread  as  we  lay  under  the  oaks — I  reading,  he 
lying  on  his  back  and  looking  up  at  the  birds — he  would 
correct  me.  I  know  there  is  a  vague  impression  that 
General  Lane  was  an  ignorant  man.  Well,  I  am  not 
learned  enough  to  be  good  authority,  but  I  have  mixed 
with  many  educated  men  since,  and  I  am  bound  to  say, 
so  far  as  1  can  judge,  he  was  the  best-read  man  I  have 
ever  yet  known.  His  letters  are  the  most  perfect  in 
all  respects  I  have  ever  received.  He  wrote  in  the  old- 
fashioned,  full,  round  style,  every  letter  like  print,  not 
even  a  comma  missing  in  letters  of  the  greatest  length. 
Using  the  simplest  Saxon,  he  always  said  much  in  little 
— a  duty  of  every  writer  of  everything. 

General  Lane,  having  been  defeated,  retiring  from 
politics,  returned  to  Oregon,  and,  while  crossing  the 
Calipooia  mountains  on  his  way  home,  was  accidentally 
shot  through  the  breast.  lie  reached  home,  however, 
and  lay  nearly  a  year  on  his  back.  The  roar  of  war  filled 
the  ears  of  the  world  at  the  time,  and  bigger  events  over 
shadowed  him  and  his  troubles.  But  he  did  not  care 
greatly  for  himself  at  anytime.  His  letters  of  this  period 
are  full  of  pity  for  the  North  and  for  the  South  ;  large 
and  human  pity,  such  as  you  find  in  Plutarch  or  Yirgil 
when  the}'  speak  of  another  age  than  their  own. 

I  visited  him  when  again  on  his  feet,  and  I  recall  with 
pleasure  the  fact  that  the  now  old  man  was  full  of  strength 


206  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

and  content.  On  the  day  lie  was  sixty-five  lie  and  hie 
son,  since  a  member  of  Congress,  went  out  shooting,  and 
I  saw  the  old  Senator  bring  in  a  seven-pronged  buck  on 
his  shoulders. 

Ten  years  later,  on  my  return  from  Europe,  I  called 
to  see  him.  "lie  lives  three  miles  east  and  four  miles 
perpendicular  now,''  said  one  of  his  sons,  pointing  up  the 
mountains.  Poverty  had  driven  him  from  his  ranch  in 
the  valley. 

I  found  this  old  man  now  approaching  eighty  years, 
felling  a  tree  in  front  of  his  little  log  cabin.  He  came 
forward,  axe  in  hand,  to  meet  me,  his  aged  wife  shading 
her  eyes  with  a  lifted  hand  as  she  looked  from  the  cabin- 
door,  wondering  what  stranger  could  possibly  have 
climbed  the  mountain  to  their  humble  hermitage. 

And  what  a  talk  we  had  ;  how  he  wanted  to  know  all 
about  Europe,  a  world  he  had  never  seen,  but  which  he 
knew  so  well.  How  interested  he  was  in  my  work,  pat 
ting  me  on  the  head  and  calling  me  his  own  boy,  believing 
in  me  entirely,  bidding  me  to  go  with  God's  blessing  ;  to 
be  good,  to  be  great  if  I  could,  but  be  good  always. 

And  here  on  this  mountain-top,  with  the  companion  of 
his  bosom  for  more  than  fifty  years,  the  sun  of  this  old 
Roman  senator's  life  went  down.  Nothing  was  said  of 
him  at  his  death,  for  no  one  knew  him  in  his  life.  I  lay 
this  handful  of  leaves  on  my  dear  dead.  It  is  all  I  have 
to  give  ;  I,  a  robin,  bring  leaves  for  one  who  was  lost  in 
the  woods,  one  who  lay  down  alone  and  unknown  and 
died  in  the  wilderness  of  this  life.  He  lived  frugally 
and  died  poor,  while  others  lived  extravagantly  and  grew 
rich.  Not  a  dollar  of  this  nation's  money  ever  found  its 
way  to  this  simple  and  sincere  man's  pocket.  lie  died 
not  in  want,  for  his  children  are  well  to  do,  but  poor ; 
very  poor :  and  very  pure  ;  as  he  had  lived. 


TOM    HOOD.  £07 

II. 

TOM  HOOD. 

London,  JYov.  21,  187-i.  Yesterday  I  came  back  to 
London,  after  nearly  two  years'  wandering  in  the  Old, 
Old  World,  up  the  Kile,  and  in  and  about  the  tombs  of 
buried  empires  and  forgotten  kings.  And  all  this  must 
be  written  up.  ...  I  cannot  finish  a  line.  I  sit  here 
alone,  my  work  in  heaps  before  me.  I  have  sat  here  all 
day,  and  have  done  nothing. 

Tom  Hood  is  dead.  He  was  my  first,  my  firmest  friend 
in  London — nay,  in  all  Europe.  I  came  back  yester 
day  and  missed  my  warmest  welcome. 

I  called  at  his  little  sanctum  before  even  driving  to  my 
hotel.  I  rushed  in,  as  I  always  did  before,  expecting  to 
find  him  there,  to  take  him  by  his  great  black  beard,  to 
bully  him,  to  call  him  fellow-citizen — this  British  subject, 
this  great,  good  man,  always  so  kind  to  me  ;  but  I  found 
the  chair  empty.  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  at  a  boy 
who  had  followed  me  ;  he  said  : 

u  Mr.  Hood  is  dying,  sir.  lie  is  at  his  home  in  Peck- 
ham  Rye.  They  say  he  will  not  live  till  to-morrow." 

Over  London  Bridge  I  drove,  and  on  through  the  dull 
gray  fog  as  fast  as  the  man  would  drive  me  ;  and  all  the 
time  I  kept  savins?  somehow  to  mvself  : 

•I.  •/         O  J 

"  One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath." 

And  yet  the  lines  had  no  suggestion  of  this  man's  life 
or  death.     Perhaps  it   was  the  great   river  under  me, 
wrapped  in  fog,  and  flowing,  scarcely  visible,  dark  and 
death-like,  as  I  passed,  that  kept  them  in  my  mind. 
On,  on  through  London,  five,  six,  seven  miles,  and  we 


208  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

touched  the  high-tide  mark  of  the  great  city.  Here  the 
new  structures,  the  new  streets,  progress,  had  struck  the 
old  order  of  things — old  frame  houses,  old  crazy  inns — 
and  knocked  them  about  and  tossed  them  out  of  place,  as 
if  a  great  sea  had  rolled  in,  and,  pushing  wreck  and  cast 
away  high  up  on  the  strand,  had  left  them  tumbled  there. 

A  little  cottage,  that  looked  like  a  farmer's  home  in  the 
"West,  an  humble  and  simple  home  indeed,  looking  out 
over  the  open  field  where  the  soldiers  sometimes  drill  and 
men  play  all  the  time  at  merry  games  when  they  come, 
weary  of  town,  out  to  this  green  edge  of  it ;  and  there  lay 
Hood,  dying  indeed. 

All  day,  all  the  year,  whenever  I  had  thought  of 
London,  I  had  been  seeing  his  good-natured  face,  hear 
ing  his  hearty  welcome  back  to  town.  I  had  not  even 
dreamed  I  should  not  find  him  in  his  office,  as  before. 

These  things  change  a  man's  thoughts.  He  feels  no 
more  of  much  importance.  Ambition  passes  on.  He 
sees  but  little  use  in  working  any  more.  He  feels  that 
there  is  no  good  in  it  all — no  good  except  the  little  good 
he  may  do  to  others. 

His  only  sister,  a  great,  strong  woman,  plain,  almost 
ugly  from  watching  and  weeping,  met  me  at  the  door, 
silent  almost  as  a  stone,  and  all  the  time  tears  kept  well 
ing  up  and  breaking  over  and  running  down  and  dropping 
from  her  face  on  to  her  clasped  hands.  I  never  saw  such 
sorrow.  I  wish  she  had  not  been  so  silent.  I  wish  I 
could  forget  her. 

•x-  ***** 

What  a  dark  and  foggy  day  it  was  yesterday.  The 
mist  and  the  dark  seemed  to  have  life.  I  saw  it  move 
along  the  streets  as  I  returned  to  London.  I  saw  it  curl 
like  smoke  about  London  Bridge  and  creep  like  winged 
gray  beasts  in  the  air  about  the  towers  of  Westminster. 


TOM    HOOD.  209 

Just  four  years  ago  this  month,  a  day  like  this,  I  first 
met  Hood.  How  lonesome  I  was  !  How  discouraged  ! 
Three  months  I  had  been  in  this  great  town,  sick,  worn, 
alone.  I  knew  not  a  soul. 

"  Oh  !  it  was  pitiful, 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Friend  I  had  none." 

Passing  wearily  down  the  Strand,  I  saw  the  sign  of 
Punch  one  day,  and  entered. 

"  Is  the  editor  in?" 

"  Will  you  send  your  card  ?v 

How  my  heart  beat  again.  How  I  did  hope  he  was  not 
in,  and  how  glad  I  was  when  that  boy  came  back  with  his 
laconic  "  Not  in,  sir,"  yet  delivered  in  such  a  way  that 
I  knew  perfectly  well  he  was  in,  but  wouldn't  see  you. 

I  went  on.  A  group  of  people  stood  on  the  sidewalk 
looking  at  the  comic  pictures  in  a  window.  It  was  the 
Fun  office.  I  pushed  my  way  boldly  through  the  crowd, 
and  entered. 

u  Is  the  editor  in  ?" 

"  What  name,  sir  T' 

"No  name;  he  would  not  know  me.  Tell  him  a 
man  from  America  wishes  to  see  him." 

"  Come  this  way,  sir.     Mr.  Hood  will  see  you.1' 

As  we  went  on  through  the  shelves  of  books  and  pa 
pers,  I  wondered  if  this  Hood  was  any  relative  of  the 
great,  the  greatest,  the  saddest,  brightest,  best  humorist 
that  has  ever  been,  it  was  his  only  son.  ]STow  that  he 
is  dead  and  leaves  no  children,  the  name  is  no  more.  .  .  . 
"What  in  the  world  made  this  man  so  kind  to  me  I  never 
could  make  out.  But  from  that  day  till  his  death  he 
stood  to  me  like  a  tower.  The  tall,  manly  fellow,  the 
handsomest  man  in  London,  cut  down  yesterday  just  on 
the  edge  of  forty  !  It  seems  to  me  now  I  shall  never 


210  MEMORIE   AND   RIME. 

want  to  work  any  more,  for  I  shall  miss  his  praise  all  the 
time,  whatever  I  may  do.  From  the  first  1  took  him 
everything.  What  a  patient  man  he  was  !  I  do  not  now 
see,  overworked  as  he  was  all  the  time,  how  he  managed 
to  put  up  wjth  all  of  my  stupid  plans  and  demands. 

I  took  my  first  fruits  to  him.  On  his  shelves  are  three 
books  from  the  last  three  years,  and  in  them  all,  when  I 
gave  them  to  him,  I  wrote  :  "To  my  first  and  best  friend 
in  London." 

He  took  me  home  with  him.  But  for  him  I  should 
have  been  very  ill  that  day,  when  I  first  met  him. 

I  now  begin  to  find  out,  however,  that  this  strong, 
handsome  fellow,  half  lion,  half  lamb,  was  as  kind  to 
hundreds,  to  all  alike,  as  he  was  to  me.  Artemus  Ward 
died,  one  might  almost  say,  in  his  arms. 

"  Don't  tell  my  mother,  Tom.  Don't  let  them  write 
it  to  her.  Keep  it  from  her  a  year  or  two,  and  then  she 
will  not  know  it  till  she  sees  me  on  the  other  side — for 
she  is  very  old."  And  these  Tom  Hood  told  me  were 
the  last  words  of  Arternus  Ward,  whispered  in  his  ear  as 
he  lay  dying  in  his  arms  at  Southampton. 

The  very  first  evening  I  spent  with  Hood  he  brought 
out  a  great  big  basket  and  emptied  it  on  the  table.  This 
was  his  father's  scrap-basket,  and  contained  all  the  papers, 
manuscripts,  and  drawings  that  his  son  had  got  together 
and  kept.  Of  course,  I  wanted  to  see  the  "  Bridge  of 
Sighs;"  but  there  was  not  one  line  of  it  preserved. 
There  are  a  few  lines,  however,  that  were  meant  for  this 
poem — perhaps  they  are  the  very  first  the  great  good 
poet  conceived  when  this  poem  was  in  his  heart.  And 
here  they  are,  just  as  I  copied  them  that  evening  : 

"  Cover  her,  cover  her, 
Throw  the  sod  over  her, 
Hide  her  from  God." 


TOM    HOOD.  211 

And  then,  after  that  and  farther  down  on  the  sheet,  is  a 
comic  picture.     Then,  still  farther  down,  this  : 
"  Hello  !     Who  comes  there  V 

Was  it  some  one  knocked  ?  Perhaps  it  was  a  man 
with  a  dun,  and  the  poor  man  knew  his  step. 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  the  world— the  well-fed,  fat, 
fashionable  world — when  it  reads  with  intense  pleasure 
certain  poems,  ever  reflects  that  the  man  possibly  wrote 
them  without  his  dinner. 

What  curious  pictures  and  drawings  we  came  upon — 
such  things  as  only  could  amuse  little  children,  and  they 
were  all  patched  up  and  fastened  together  here  and  there 
with  wafers. 

Then  the  son  told  me  that  during  the  last  few  years  of 
his  father's  life  he  could  not  sleep  for  pain,  and  so  sat  up 
and  made  these  pictures  for  himself  and  sister  ;  and  when 
they  would  wake  in  the  morning  they  would  find  these 
things  pinned  and  pasted  all  about  the  wall. 

Tom  Hood  is  dead.  I  sit  alone  before  my  task,  and  I 
shall  not  go  on  with  it  for  many  days  ;  for  what  is  the 
use  ?  London  is  not  the  London  it  was. 

Here  lies  a  letter  from  those  who  watched  with  him  to 
the  last.  It  says  he  spoke  so  often  of  me,  and  said  I 
would  write  a  verse  to  his  memory. 

No,  I  cannot  begin  it.  And  what  if  I  did  ?  What  is 
the  use  ?  It  seems  to  me  to-day  that  there  is  no  use 
in  doing  anything,  except  to  do  good  to  others. 


Death  is  in  the  world.' 


Pardon  this  rambling  sketch.  I  know  that  it  tells  but 
little  of  the  story  of  his  life  or  the  good  that  was  in  his 
heart.  Yet  why  should  it  ?  The  first  is  known  to  the 
world,  the  latter  is  known  to  God.  And  that  is  enough. 

Put  this  handful  of  crumpled  flowers  on  his  grave — 


212  MEMOIUE    AND    RIME. 

leaf,  and  thorn,  and  blossom — gathered  to-day  loosely 
and  sadly  as  I  went  back  in  memory  alone  over  the  path 
we  walked  a  time  together.  I  have  not  heart  to  arrange 
them  better  now. 

Tom  Hood  was  a  toiler  for  his  bread,  a  hard  worker. 
He  needed  rest,  and  I  know  he  has  it.  He  was  poor,  not 
destitute  ;  but,  like  myself,  he  belonged  to  the  great 
majority — was  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  died  poor. 

Something  is  surely  wrong.  A  man  may  edit  a  jour 
nal,  or  write  a  thing  that  makes  a  million  people  happy, 
and  yet  be  left  to  go  hungry  ;  while  a  man  may  fight  a 
battle  that  makes  a  thousand  people  miserable,  and  for 
that  get  wealth  and  honors  without  end. 

#:.-*'•»_:•»..»..# 

How  blank  and  worthless  all  this  reads  as  I  turn  back 
and  run  it  over.  It  is  half  about  myself.  But  I  have 
noticed  that  in  any  great  grief  or  any  great  joy  our  little 
selves  become  the  little  centre  and  we  can  see  no  farther. 
We  stand  alone  in  the  little  present.  We  stand  on 
"  The  Bridge  of  Sighs,' '  that  reaches  from  the  bright  land 
of  the  past  to  the  unbridged  to-morrow,  and  see  none  of 
the  beings  that  tide,  and  toil,  and  battle,  and  bleed,  and 
die  about  us.  Good,'  gentle,  genial  friend,  farewell ! 


"MINNIE    MYRTLE."  213 


III. 


Died  in  New  York,  May,  1883. 

SHE  seemed  to  see  wreck  and  storm  and  separation  for 
us  on  the  ocean  of  life  long  before  it  came,  and  even 
while  we  were  newly  married,  very  hopeful,  young,  and 
strong  and  happy.  And  so  twenty  years  ago,  while  we 
were  living  in  San  Francisco,  with  this  singular  and  sad 
notion  in  her  head,  she  one  evening  half  playfully  said 
that,  whatever  came  to  us,  if  I  died  first  she  would 
write  me  well  before  the  wrorld  and  let  none  do  my 
memory  wrong.  And  she  exacted  the  same  promise  of 
me.  And  from  that  time,  so  far  from  forgetting  the 
foolish  covenant,  she  reminded  me  of  it  often  after.  She 
reminded  me  of  it  in  this  city,  New  York,  only  a  few  days 
before  her  death.  In  the  fulfilment  of  this  promise  I 
now  undertake  this  most  delicate  and  most  difficult  task. 
For  it  is  on  my  conscience  that  the  occasion  is  opportune, 
and  that  I  cannot  well  conclude  this  volume  without 
trying,  after  a  year's  delay,  to  keep  this  covenant  and 
solemn  promise  of  twenty  years  ago.  It  was  while  I 
was  riding  Mossman  &  Miller's  pony  express  from 
Walla  Walla  to  Millersburg,  in  the  mines  of  Idaho,  in 
the  summer  of  1861,  that  I  first  was  attracted  by  her 
writings  in  the  newspapers.  I  wrote  her,  and  had  replies. 
Then,  when  I  came  down  from  the  mountains  and 
embarked  in  journalism,  she  wrote  to  me,  and  her  letters 
grew  ardent  and  full  of  affection.  Then  I  mounted  my 
horse  and  rode  hundreds  of  miles  through  the  valleys 
and  over  the  mountains,  till  1  came  to  the  sea,  at  Port 


214  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

Orford,  then  a  flourishing  mining  town,  and  there  first 
saw  "  Minnie  Myrtle." 

Tall,  dark,  and  striking  in  every  respect,  this  first  Saxon 
woman  I  had  ever  addressed  had  it  all  her  own  way  at 
once.  She  knew  nothing  at  all  of  my  life,  except  that 
I  was  an  expressman  and  country  editor.  1  knew 
nothing  at  all  of  hers,  but  I  found  her  with  her  kind, 
good  parents,  surrounded  by  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
the  pet  and  spoiled  child  of  the  mining  and  lumber 
camp.  In  her  woody  little  world  there  by  the  sea  she 
was  literally  worshipped  by  the  rough  miners  and  lumber 
men,  and  the  heart  of  the  bright  and  merry  girl  was 
brimming  full  of  romance,  hope,  and  happiness.  I 
arrived  on  Thursday.  On  Sunday  next  we  were  mar 
ried  !  Oh,  to  what  else  but  ruin  and  regret  could  such 
romantic  folly  lead  ?  Procuring  a  horse  for  her,  we  set 
out  at  once  to  return  to  my  post,  far  away  over  the 
mountains.  These  mountains  were  then,  as  now,  and 
ever  will  be  I  reckon,  crossed  only  by  a  dim,  broken 
trail,  with  houses  twenty  and  thirty  miles  apart  for  the 
few  travellers. 

The  first  day  out,  toward  evening,  we  came  upon  a 
great  band  of  elk.  1  drew  a  revolver,  and  with  wild 
delight  we  dashed  among  the  frightened  beasts,  and  fol 
lowing  them  quite  a  distance  we  lost  our  way.  And  so 
we  had  to  spend  our  first  night  together,  tired,  hungry, 
thirsty,  sitting  under  the  pines  on  a  hillside,  holding  on 
to  our  impatient  horses.  We  reached  my  home  all 
right,  however,  at  length,  after  a  week's  ride,  but  only 
to  find  that  my  paper  had  been  suppressed  by  the  Gov 
ernment,  and  we  resolved  to  seek  our  fortunes  in  San 
Francisco.  But  we  found  neither  fortune  nor  friends 
in  the  great  new  city,  and  so,  returning  to  Oregon,  I 
bought  a  band  of  cattle,  and  we  set  out  with  our  baby 


"MINNIE   MYRTLE."  215 

and  a  party  of  friends  and  relatives  to  reach  the  new 
mining  camp,  Canyon  City,  in  Eastern  Oregon. 

And  what  a  journey  \\as  this  of  ours  over  the  Oregon 
Sierras,  driving  the  bellowing  cattle  in  the  narrow  trail 
through  the  dense  woods,  up  the  steep,  snowy  moun 
tains,  down  through  the  roaring  canons  !  It  was  wild, 
glorious,  fresh,  full  of  hazard  and  adventure  !  Minnie 
had  made  a  willow  basket  and  swung  it  to  her  saddle- 
horn,  with  the  crowding  and  good-natured  baby  inside, 
looking  up  at  her,  laughing,  as  she  leaped  her  horse  over 
the  fallen  logs  or  made  a  full  hand  with  whip  and  lasso, 
riding  after  the  cattle.  But  when  we  descended  the 
wooded  mountains  to  the  open  plain  on  the  eastern  side 
of  the  Sierras  the  Indians  were  ready  to  receive  us,  and 
we  almost  literally  had  to  fight  our  way  for  the  next 
week's  journey,  every  day  and  night.  And  this  woman 
was  one  of  the  bravest  souls  that  ever  saw  battle.  I  think 
she  never,  even  in  the  hour  of  death,  knew  what  fear 
was.  She  was  not  only  a  wonderful  horsewoman,  but 
very  adroit  in  the  use  of  arms.  She  was  a  much  better 
shot,  indeed,  than  myself.  In  our  first  little  skirmish 
on  this  occasion  I  had  taken  position  on  a  hill  with  a  few 
men,  while  the  cattle  and  pack  animals  were  corraled  by 
the  others  in  a  bight  in  the  foothills  below  to  prevent  a 
stampede.  And  thus  intrenched  we  waited  the  attack 
from  the  Indians,  who  held  the  farther  point  of  the  ridge 
on  which  I  had  stationed  my  men.  Suddenly  Minnie, 
baby  in  arms,  stood  at  my  side  and  began  to  calmly  dis 
cuss  the  situation,  and  to  pass  merry  remarks  about  the 
queer  noises  the  bullets  made  as  they  flattened  on  the 
rocks  about  us  and  glanced  over  our  heads.  I  finally 
got  her  to  go  down,  or,  rather,  promise  to  go  down  to 
camp,  for  the  better  safety  of  the  baby.  But  in  a  mo 
ment  she  was  back.  She  had  hidden  the  laughing  little 


216  MEMOBIE    AND    RIME. 

baby  in  the  rocks,  and  now,  gun  in  hand,  kept  at  my 
side  till  the  brush  was  over  and  the  Indians  beaten  ofL 

Here  is  one  leaf  from  her  journal,  or  rather,  I  think, 
her  recollections  of  the  journey,  which  she  left  me  along 
with  her  other  papers  when  she  died  : 

One  night  of  that  journey  I  shall  not  soon  forget. 
There  had  been  some  lighting  ahead  of  us  and  we  knew 
the  foe  was  lurking  in  ambush.  They  made  a  kind  of 
fort  of  the  freight,  and  while  we  lay  down  in  the  canon, 
baby  and  I,  away  up  on  the  high,  sharp  butte,  Joaquin 
stood  sentinel.  And  I  say  this  to-night  in  his  behalf  and 
in  his  praise,  that  he  did  bravely,  and  saved  his  loved 
ones  from  peril  that  night.  That  he  stood  on  that  dreary 
summit,  a  target  for  the  foe,  and  no  one  but  me  to 
take  note  of  his  valor — stood  till  the  morning  shone 
radiant,  stood  till  the  night  was  passed.  There  was  no 
world  looking  on  to  praise  his  courage  and  echo  it  over 
the  land  ;  only  the  frozen  stars  in  mystic  groups  far 
away,  and  the  slender  moon,  like  a  sword  drawn  to  hold 
him  at  bay. 

Reaching  the  mines  in  safety,  I  practised  law,  mined, 
fought  Indians,  and  indeed  was  the  busiest  of  men  in 
trying  all  means  to  get  on.  I  planted  the  iirst  orchard 
in  all  that  land,  pushed  ahead  as  hard  as  I  could,  and 
tried  to  be  practical  and  steady  and  thoughtful.  Yet  I 
was  still  but  a  lad  in  years.  I  forgot  to  mention  that  I 
was  meantime  elected  Judge  of  the  county  and  had  be 
gun  to  write  the  "  Songs  of  the  Sierras."  My  life  was 
a  sober  and  severe  one.  For  without  learning,  I  was 
trying  to  administer  the  law  ;  without  knowing  how  to 
read,  I  was  trying  to  write  a  book.  I  was  walking  a 
new  road  of  life  now.  All  was  strange.  What  availed 
my  knowledge  of  woodcraft  in  the  courts  of  law  ?  The 
mystery  of  making  fire  by  the  friction  of  two  sticks  of 
wood,  the  secret  of  finding  water  in  the  desert  by  the 


"MINXIE    MYRTLE."  217 

flight  of  a  bird,  the  cunning  of  foretelling  the  force  of 
the  coming  winter  or  the  depth  of  the  snow,  all  these 
and  the  like  were  of  no  use  now. 

If  the  shrewd  and  sharp  lawyers  who  bullied  and  de 
feated  me  had  come  into  my  elements  I  had  beaten  them. 
But  I  had  chosen  to  enter  theirs  and  must  be  equal  to 
the  undertaking.  And  so  it  was  I  worked  and  studied 
as  never  man  worked  and  studied  before.  Often  I  never 
left  my  office  till  the  gray  duwn,  after  a  day  of  toil  and 
a  night  of  study.  My  health  gave  way  and  1  was  indeed 
old  and  thoughtful.  Well,  all  this,  you  can  see,  did  not 
suit  the  merry-hearted  and  spoiled  child  of  the  mines  at 
all.  Then  she  was  not  so  ambitious  as  I  was  ;  and  she 
had  not  such  a  strange,  wild  life  behind  to  haunt  her. 
She  became  the  spoiled  child  here  that  she  had  been  at 
her  father's,  and  naturally  grew  impatient  at  my  persist 
ent  toil  and  study.  But  she  was  good  all  the  time  ;  good 
and  honest  and  true  in  all  things  and  in  all  ways  ;  un 
derstand  that  distinctly.  And  let  me  say  here,  once  for 
all,  that  no  man  or  woman  can  put  a  finger  on  any  stain 
in  this  woman's  whole  record  of  life,  so  far  as  truth  and 
purity  go.  But  she  was  not  happy  here.  Impatient  of 
the  dull  monotony  of  the  exhausted  mining  camp,  and 
longing  for  the  sea  and  the  old  home  that  almost  over 
hung  the  sounding  waters,  she  took  her  two  children  and 
returned  to  her  mother,  while  I  sold  the  little  home  we 
had  built  and  kept  together,  the  new  orchard  and  the 
lanes  of  roses  we  had  planted  together,  and  remained 
there  in  the  camp,  promising  to  follow  her,  yet  full  of 
ambition  now  to  be  elected  to  a  place  on  the  Supreme 
Bench  of  the  State,  and  I  worked  on  to  that  end  cease 
lessly. 

She  had  been  absent  from  me  quite  a  year,  when  the 
convention  was  called,  and  I  went  to  Portland,  seeking 


218  MEM  OKIE    AND    RIME. 

the  nomination  for  the  place  I  desired.  But  the  poor, 
impatient  lady,  impulsive  always,  and  angry  that  I  should 
Lave  kept  so  long  away,  had  forwarded  papers  from  her 
home,  hundreds  of  miles  remote,  to  a  lawyer  here,  praying 
for  a  divorce.  This  so  put  me  to  shame  that  I  abandoned 
my  plans  and  resolved  to  hide  my  head  in  Europe.  In  my 
rage  and  disappointment  I  arranged  with  her  lawyer  to 
give  her  a  pretence  of  that  which  she  professed  to  desire. 
Yet  I  knew  quite  well  that  this  was  only  a  romantic  and 
foolish  freak  that  meant  nothing  ;  that  she  did  this  only 
in  order  to  get  me  to  come  to  her,  and  that  she  did  not 
dream  she  could  be  divorced  unless  I  came  to  her  when 
the  action  was  brought.  Nor  could  she,  in  fact.  But  a 
court  was  in  session,  and  her  lawyer,  who  looked  to  me 
only  for  his  fee,  entered  the  case,  and  then  wrote  to  her 
and  published  it  to  the  world  that  she  was  divorced,  while 
I  was  sailing  away  for  other  lands. 

And  it  was  perhaps  quite  ten  years  before  she  came  to 
me  here  in  New  York. 

*  *  •*  *  •*  •* 

Passing  unmentioned  the  trials  of  all  those  terrible 
years,  we  come  to  the  closing  chapter  of  this  romantic  life. 
I  followed  the  woman  she  sent  to  me  one  stormy  night 
in  silence  till  we  came  at  last  to  a  little  back  room 
in  the  top  of  a  house,  with  a  bed  in  the  centre  and  a 
doubtful  fire  struggling  in  the  grate.  The  woman  turned 
away  and  left  us  in  the  room  together.  The  place  was 
almost  dark.  She  did  not  give  me  her  hand,  but  stood 
before  me  with  one  hand  holding  on  the  bedpost,  a 
long  time  silent. 

"I  have  come  back  to  you  at  last,"  she  said  after 
a  while. 

"  You  have  come  1o  drive  me  from  America  again." 

"  I  have  come  to  you  to  die  !"  she  said.     And  as  she 


219 

turned  so  that  the  light  was  on  her  face  I  saw  that  it  was 
so.     And  then  we  sat  down  and  had  a  long  talk.      It  was 
our  last  long  and  serious  talk.     I  was  not  very  kind.     I 
am  sorry  now,  but  the  bitterness  of  the  ten  years  past 
was  still  in  my  heart,  and  1  could  not  forget.    She  want 
ed  most  of  all    to  see   her  little  girl,  whom  I  had  taken 
from  her  and  placed  in  the  convent  school  in  Canada 
three  years  before,  and  it  seemed  to  break  her  heart  when 
I  refused  to  send  for  her  to  come.     By  and  by,  however, 
when  I  promised  her  that  she  should  surely  see  her  before 
long,  she    became   reconciled.      She    talked    with    calm 
unconcern  about  her  coming  death,  reminded  me  of  my 
promise,  and  told  me  she  had  brought  me  all  her  papers  ; 
some  that  we  had  written  together  before  I  had  learned 
to  spell.     There  was  a  valor,  a  sweetness,  too,  and  a  dig 
nity,  a  large  charity  in  all  she  said  and   did  now  in  the 
twilight  of  life  that  won  all  hearts  to  her  entirely.      The 
valor  of  her  youth  she  kept  till  the  grave  closed  over 
her,   and  she  never  complained  of  anything  or  of  any 
one,  but  was  patient,  resigned,  and  perfectly  fearless  and 
tranquil  to  the  end.      But  the  end  was  not  so  near  after 
all.     When  I  went  back  to  see  her  one  day  she  had  gone, 
and  had  left  no  word  where  she  could  be  found.      Then  I 
began  to  fear  and  doubt  her  promise  that  she  would  not 
molest   me  ;     the  winter  wore   away,   and   April   came. 
Again  they  came  to  tell  me,  from  her,  that  she  was  dying, 
and  I  must  keep  my  promise.     And  so  I  arranged  for 
her  child  to  come,  and   I  went  every  day  to  assure   her 
that  she  was  coming,  and  to  take  her  some  flowers  and 
whatever  kind  messages  and  encouragement  I  could. 

Wearily  the  days  went  by  till  away  on  in  May,  the 
month  in  which  she  was  born.  Then  the  child  came, 
and  the  good  people,  the  gentle,  loving  people  who  kept 
with  her  and  cared  for  and  loved  and  pitied  her  in  these 


220  MKMORIE    AND    RIME. 

last  days,  said  it  was  like  religion  to  see  them  together, 
and  that  the  dying  woman  in  her  last  days  was  very 
happy.  And  so  Minnie  Myrtle  died  last  May,  here  in 
New  York.  When  I  went  up  to  look  on  her  dead  face — 
a  strange  fancy  of  hers — she  had  set  about  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  where  she  could  see  them,  all  the  flowers  I  had 
sent  her,  the  withered  ones  and  all.  There  was  quite 
half  a  trunk  full  of  papers  which  she  had  brought  and 
intrusted  to  me,  some  of  them  suggesting  wonderful 
things,  great  thoughts  and  good  and  new  ;  for  much 
that  she  wrote — and  may  be  this  is  not  great  praise — 
was  better  than  any  writing  of  mine.  But  she  lacked 
care  and  toil  and  sustained  thought.  I  bought  a  little 
bit  of  ground  in  Evergreens  Cemetery,  and  there  the 
hand  that  writes  this  laid  the  poor,  tired  lady  to  rest,  for 
giving,  and  begging  God  to  be  forgiven. 


IY. 

HULINGS    MILLER. 

Died  in  Oregon,  March,  1873. 

"  Peace  hath  her  victories  no  less  renowned  than  war." 

I  ALWAYS  liked  the  ancient  Roman  custom,  where  the 
son  said  some  last  farewell  words  of  love  and  sympathy 
over  his  dead  ;  and  I  ask  you  to  let  me  say  a  few  words 
in  memory  of  my  father,  who  died  last  year,  on  his 
little  farm  in  Oregon.  For  who  are  nearer  to  me  than 


HfLIXGS    MILLER.  221 

those  to  whom  I  have  given  my  best  thong-lit,  iho  best 
years  of  my  life  ?  AVho  can  better  sympathize  with 
me  or  will  bear  with  me  better  than  those  who  have  been 
witli  me  so  long  and  borne  with  me  in  the  battle  of  this 
life  through  all  these  pages  ? 

My  father's  father  lies  in  a  forgotten  grave  at  old  Fort 
Meigs,  Ohio,  where  he  fell,  under  Harrison,  in  the  war 
of  1812  ;  and  my  father  was  born  about  that  time,  in 
Cincinnati,  where  he  received  a  good  education  for  that 
day,  and  where  he  afterward  became  a  merchant.  But 
his  singularly  shy  and  sensitive  nature  quite  unfitted  him 
for  commercial  intercourse  with  his  fellows,  and,  giv 
ing  this  up,  he  retired  to  the  little  village  or  settlement 
called  Liberty,  Union  County,  Indiana,  and  began  life  in 
the  wilderness  as  a  school-teacher.  Here  he  married. 
My  mother's  name  was  Witt.  But  my  quiet,  Quaker- 
like  father  did  not  seem  destined  to  prosper  in  this  world's 
ways,  anywhere  or  in  anything  at  all,  and,  after  vibrat 
ing  between  Cincinnati  and  theliftle  village  on  the  Ohio 
and  Indiana  line  for  three  or  four  years,  during  which  I 
and  my  two  brothers  were  born,  he  set  out,  with  his 
wife  and  three  infant  children,  to  push  his  way  still  far 
ther  into  the  wilderness. 

lie  settled  in  a  dense  forest,  in  what  was  then  called 
the  Miami  Reserve,  near  the  Mississinewa  River,  Marion, 
Grant  County,  Indiana.  Here,  alone,  and  with  his  own 
hands,  quite  unused  then  to  such  toil,  he,  with  the  help 
of  my  mother,  built  a  little  log  cabin  and  cleared  off  a 
little  patch  of  ground.  The  first  recollection  of  my  life 
is  that  of  waking  up  suddenly  one  night,  and,  looking 
out  of  the  little  open  window  at  the  burning  brush-heaps, 
where  my  parents,  side  by  side,  were  still  toiling  away, 
while  the  world  rested.  And  from  that  time  forth  I 
search  my  memory  in  vain  for  one  day  of  rest  from  hard 


222  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

manual  toil  for  these  two  patient  and  uncomplaining 
people,  outside  of  the  Sabbath,  which,  of  course,  was 
always  kept  sacred.  How  snowy  white  was  that  cabin 
floor,  hewn  out  of  the  forest  by  my  father's  hand  ;  how 
clean  and  bright  the  blazing  hearth  ;  how  cheery  the 
few  flowers  that  struggled  up  out  of  the  strange  wild 
soil  about  this  lonely  little  cabin-door  ! 

But  the  fever  and  ague  fell  almost  continually  upon 
us  all,  and  we  did  not  get  on.  My  poor  parents  grad 
ually  became  discouraged,  and  a  gloom  and  sadness  settled 
down  upon  them  forever  ;  but  I  never  heard  one  word 
of  impatience  or  complaint.  Ne^er  was  one  unkind 
word  spoken  in  that  little  cabin.  I  never  knew  that 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  tobacco,  or  whiskey,  or  oaths,  or 
cross  words  until  years  afterward,  when  we  fell  in  with 
the  great  caravans  crossing  the  plains  ;  but  1  can  see  now 
that  my  parents  were  sadly,  hopelessly  discouraged. 
They  never  spoke  of  the  past  or  their  people  at  all ;  and 
as  I  grew  older,  seeing  tears  in  their  eyes  as  I  one  day 
asked  them  about  these  things,  I  never  asked  them  any 
more,  and  to' this  day  I  do  not  even  know  the  Christian 
name  of  my  father's  father  or  my  mother's. 

As  the  country  slowly  settled  up  about  us  my  father 
again  taught  school  ;  but  his  three  little  boys  he  kept 
quite  exclusive  and  all  to  himself.  Sometimes,  it  is 
true,  we  were  allowed  to  go  with  him  to  school,  along 
the  path  through  the  thick  wood  ;  but  it  was  a  long 
walk  and  we  did  not  go  often.  He  taught  us  to  read  by 
our  cabin  fire,  and  he  read  to  us  all  the  spare  time  he 
had.  He  never  allowed  us  to  mix  with  other  children, 
and,  indeed,  I  think  we  did  not  care  for  other  company 
than  ourselves.  He  put  us  to  work  as  soon  as  we  were 
able,  to  pick  brush  or  pull  weeds,  and  we  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  play.  For  my  own  part,  I  know  I  never 


HULINGS   MILLER.  223 

had  a  top,  or  marble,  or  toy  of  any  kind  in  my  life,  and 
never  knew  any  of  the  games  familiar  to  children. 

My  mother  spun  and  wove  our  scant  clothing  out  of 
the  flax  which  she  grew  in  a  corner  of  the  little  clearing, 
and  I  remember  it  seemed  to  me  the  grandest  day  of  my 
life  when  the  shoemaker  came  late  one  fall  to  measure 
me  for  my  first  pair  of  shoes. 

But  all  this  time  my  poor  father  seemed  to  grow  more 
sad,  silent,  and  thoughtful  each  year.  By  and  by  there 
was  talk  of  the  land  coming  into  market,  and,  as  we  had 
no  money  yet  to  pay  for  it,  he  went  out  to  work  by  the 
day  at  a  mill  which  was  being  built  over  on  the  river, 
three  miles  away.  It  was  a  lonesome  time  through  the 
woods,  and  my  father  would  have  to  set  out  before  day 
light  and  return  from  his  work  after  dark.  A  day's 
work  then  meant  the  whole  day.  One  night,  as  he 
neared  home,  the  wolves  chased  him,  and  he  had  to  take 
shelter  in  a  tree.  Mother  heard  his  cries  for  help,  and 
she  took  a  hickory-bark  torch  and  went  out  and  fright 
ened  away  the  wolves  and  brought  him  safely  to  the 
cabin.  His  wages  were  fifty  cents  a  day,  a  small  sum  ; 
but  he  counted  it  a  great  favor  to  get  the  job,  for  it  en 
abled  him  finally  to  secure  one  hundred  acres  of  land. 
And  oh  !  how  happy  he  was  to  have  this  his  first  home 
for  his  little  family  ! 

They  made  him  justice  of  the  peace.  The  people 
were  always  making  him  justice  of  the  peace  as  long  as 
he  lived ;  but  he  never  would  allow  any  trouble  to  come 
to  a  trial.  I  know  he  sometimes  spent  half  the  night, 
after  his  day's  toil,  running  about  among  the  neighbors, 
settling  up  misunderstandings  which  they  wanted  to 
settle  by  law. 

The  first  year  we  planted  corn  on  the  new,  wild  land, 
so  full  of  stumps  and  snags  and  trees,  so  rank  with  net- 


004  MEMORIE    AND    HI  ME. 

ties  and  thistles  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  weeds. 
The  squirrels  seemed  to  come  by  thousands.  They  sat 
clown  in  siege  around  that  little  field,  as  if  determined  to 
take  up  the  last  grain.  My  father  had  encouraged  these 
little  squirrels  about  the  place.  He  liked  to  see  them, 
to  hear  them  chatter  in  the  boughs  above  and  rustle 
through  the  leaves.  They  broke  the  awful  monotony 
and  solitude,  and  gave  his  sad  and  patient  soul  compan 
ionship  ;  but  now  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  be  his  ruin. 
He  borrowed  a  gun,  and  one  sultry  spring  afternoon 
he  took  the  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and,  taking  me  with 
him  to  carry  the  game,  we  set  out  to  go  around  the 
field  and  destroy  the  squirrels ;  but,  as  we  went  on 
around  the  field,  he  did  not  try  to  shoot  them.  Back  of 
field  we  sat  down  in  the  dense  woods,  and  there  he 

•  began  to  threaten  them  with  the  gun.      "  Bonny  !  Bun 
ny  !  don't  you  go  in  there  !     If  you  do  I  will  shoot  you 
dead  !"     And  he  would  raise  the  gun  and,  with  great 
show  of  anger,  frighten  them  away.      And  so   the  sun 
went  down  while  my  father  was  trying  to  get  courage  to 
break  the  hush  and  sweet  tranquillity  of  the  scene  by 
shooting  one  of  his  little  companions  of  the  wilderness. 

Mother  met  us  at  the  door,  and,  handing  her  the  gun, 
he  said,  timidly  and  half -regretfully  :  "No,  no,  Marga 
ret,  I  can't  shoot  them,  and  I  won't  try  to  do  it  any 
more."  Nor  did  he  ever  again  take  a  gun  in  his  hand. 
My  father  never  fired  a  gun  in  his  life.  I  know  it  is 
hard  to  understand  how  a  man  can  live  the  best  half  of 
a  century  in  the  wilderness,  among  wild  beasts  and  wild 
er  men,  and  never  have  use  for  arms  or  ever  get  angry. 

-  But  such  was  my  father,  and  it  is  this  sweet  nature  of 
his  that  makes  his  memory  so  dear,  and  speaks  more  for 
him  than  all  that  tongue  or  peri  can  ever  say.     And  yet 
my  father  was  the  most  entirely  brave  man  I  ever  knew. 


III'LIXGS    MILLER.  22-) 

I  know  of  no  other  man  in  the  history  of  the  West  who 
ever  set  out,  unarmed  and  almost  alone,  with  his  little 
family,  to  cross  the  Plains.  I  remember  some  Indians 
came  into  camp  one  Sunday  while  we  were  "at  prayers. 
They  did  not  speak,  but  soon  passed  on.  We  were 
never  disturbed  the  whole  weary  seven  months'  journey. 
But  many  men  who  were  armed  and  constantly  on  the 
iilert  were  killed. 

But  I  am  anticipating,  and  ought  to  tell  here  what  be 
came  of  the  little  bit  of  land  so  hardly  won  in  the  Indian 
Ileserve,  in  Indiana,  Hardly  had  it  been  well  paid  for 
and  a  good  foothold  established,  when  a  clock  peddler, 
with  his  son,  came  along  with  a  wagon-load  of  clocks. 
This  sort  of  incipient  Jim  Fisk  professed  to  fall  ill,  and, 
being  so  very  eager  to  get  rid  of  his  clocks  and  return 
to  Boston,  persuaded  my  sympathetic  and  simple-heart 
ed  father  to  give  him  a  mortgage  and  take  the  load  of 
clocks.  And  so  it  was  the  little  home  was  lost  and  we 
set  out  for  Oregon  ;  but,  being  still  poor,  we  had  to 
stop  a  year  or  two  in  other  places  before  venturing  across 
the  Missouri,  and  work  for  teams  and  supplies. 

When  we  reached  and  settled  in  Oregon  the  Govern 
ment  gave  father  and  mother  each  one  hundred  and  sixty 
acres  of  land,  as  it  did  all  settlers  at  that  time,  and  here 
we  again  built  a  cabin,  and  planted  flowers  and  fruit  trees 
in  the  door-yard.  But  the  terrible  journey,  the  peril,  the- 
care  of  three  little  children — all  this  had  been  too  much 
for  mother.  Her  mind  gave  way  at  intervals  now,  and 
father's  life  was  the  saddest,  loneliest  in  the  world. 

It  was  a  pleasant  spot  we  found — a  high,  long,  grassy 
ridge,  running  down  from  the  great  dark  wooded  Sierras 
in  the  rear  through  the  rich,  level  Canias  Valley.  And 
here  my  father  lived  and  toiled  for  more  than  thirty 
years.  I  think  he  never,  in  all  that  time,  went  a  .him*- 


226  MEMOltlE    AND    RIME. 

dred  miles  away  from  his  home.  He  had  had  travel 
enough  crossing  the  Plains  ;  and  then  he  was  at  work 
all  the  time — working  with  his  hands,  ploughing,  planting 
— making  beautiful  the  new  world  about  him.  He  grew 
a  little  forest  of  fir  and  pine  and  locust  on  the  bare, 
grassy  ridge  ;  and  the  grouse  and  pheasants  and  quails 
came  down  out  of  the  dark  Sierras  and  made  their  homes 
there.  And  they  ate  his  fruit  and  berries — the  old  story 
of  the  squirrels.  But  the  most  ungrateful  of  all  the 
creatures  that  he  encouraged  to  come  and  live  around  him 
was  the  eagle.  One  spring  my  father  and  brothers  kept 
missing  the  lambs.  The  Indians  were  set  on  the  watch 
for  wolves.  My  brother  scoured  the  country  with  dogs. 
Still  the  lambs  grew  fewer  in  number  each  day.  One 
morning  my  father  heard  a  loud  bleating  in  the  air. 
Looking  up,  he  saw  one  of  his  long  cherished  and  great 
ly  admired  eagles  sweeping  away  toward  the  Sierras  with 
a  crying  lamb  in  his  claws. 

It  would  seem  that  any  one  ought  to  have  grown  rich 
here  in  these  early  days.  Many  did  ;  and,  indeed,  my 
father  oftentimes  was  far  from  poor  ;  but  when  he  had 
anything  ahead  worth  plotting  for,  the  old  story  of  the 
Yankee  with  the  clocks,  in  some  form  or  another,  would 
be  repeated,  and  my  gentle  father's  sympathies  would 
again  run  away  with  him  and  his  money,  so  hardly 
earned.  And  then  poor,  dear  mother  ! 

When  secretly  setting  out  for  London,  to  publish  a  book, 
I  went  to  pay  my  poor  parents  a  visit  at  the  little  farm 
on  the  Ridge.  1  found  my  father  ploughing  in  the  field, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  in  great  trouble.  Finally  he 
stopped  the  team,  and  as  we  sat  down  on  the  plough  to 
rest  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  helping  somebody,  and 
had,  unknown  to  us  all,  got  a  debt  of  near  a  thousand 
dollars  on  his  shoulders,  which  he  could  not  pay 


HULIXGS    MILLER.  227 

without  giving  a  mortgage.  AVell,  I  figured  over  the 
probable  cost  of  my  trip,  and  found  that,  by  taking  sec 
ond  and  third  class  tickets,  1  could  make  the  journey 
and  save  the  thousand  dollars.  And  so  there,  sitting  on 
the  plough,  the  sweet-smelling  ploughed  ground  under  our 
feet,  and  his  great,  proud  eagles  circling  overhead  toward 
the  dark  summits  of  the  Sierras,  we  solved  the  great 
little  financial  trouble,  and  I  got  his  tears  of  gratitude 
in  ten  thousand  times  compensation.  But  soon  he  was 
again  trying  to  help  somebody,  and  this  time  there  fell  a 
mortgage  on  his  bit  of  land.  How  glad  I  was,  in  less 
than  a  year,  to  send  back  to  him  such  a  story  of  glory 
and  success  through  the  newspapers  as  to  make  him  be 
lieve  that  we  should  never  again  need  a  dollar.  And  he 
was  permitted  to  go  to  his  grave  in  the  full  belief  of  the 
innocent  fiction  that  one  of  his  family,  at  least,  had  es 
caped  from  the  thraldom  of  poverty  in  the  wilderness 
and  had  fame  and  fortune  for  his  own.  And  for  this  I 
am  thankful.  It  cheered  him  and  lighted  the  last  days 
of  this  gentlest  being  I  ever  knew,  with  true  and  unselfish 
pleasure. 

My  friends,  this  is  all.  Pardon  this  rambling  sketch  ; 
but  I  am  not  equal  to  any  eulogium.  And  then,  some 
how,  I  think  he  would  not  like  it.  You  can  see,  by 
what  I  have  already  said,  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was — 
good  to  others,  all  the  time  good  to  others  ;  so  unselfish, 
so  hard  working  ;  a  very  humble  man,  it  is  true,  and 
working  in  humblest  ways.  But  God  manages  that,  I 
think.  Let  me  conclude  with  a  few  lines  from  my 
Oregon  brother's  letter.  u  His  work  is  over.  The 
poor,  tired  hands  that  labored  so  long  and  faithfully  are 
now  crossed  to  rest  forever.  The  weary  feet,  that  wan 
dered  so  far  to  find  n  home,  wander  no  more  now. 
Peace  !  peace  !  peace  !" 


•>'>$  MEMORIE    A XI)    III  M  K . 

Shall  the  dead  live  again  ?  My  friends,  I  cannot  prove 
to  you  that  the  dead  will  rise  again.  I  cannot  prove  to 
you  that  the  sun  will  rise  again.  But  I  surely  believe  it 
will.  And  I  as  surely  believe  the  dead  will  rise  again. 
Oh,  why  should  man  perish  utterly  ?  Blow  a  little  thistle- 
seed  far  away,  a  little  thing  no  bigger  than  a  pin's  point  ; 
let  it  fall  on  the  dark  earth,  even  though  it  be  in  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  world,  yet  it  will  in  the  spring 
time  come  forth  a  lovely  flower,  perfect  in  its  kind. 
And  man  is  surely  as  much  to  God  as  a  little  thistle 
down. 


Y. 

JOHN    BROWN — JOSEPH    1>E    BLONEY. 

Harper's  Ferry,  December  8, 1  S8°>.  The  face  of  nature 
is  frowning  here  forever.  Dark  and  wrinkled,  rugged 
and  unfriendly  to  look  upon,  there  is  an  atmosphere  of 
hostility  about  this  place,  of  savagery,  of  sullen  defiance 
and  impatience,  that  makes  one  willing  to  hasten  away. 
Sabre-cuts  in  the  face  of  the  land  ;  a  fierce  scowl  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  ;  a  sullen  roar  in  the  rivers  as  they  run 
angrily  together  ;  a  sullen  silence  on  the  few  people  ; 
dilapidation  over  the  town — a  tired,  deserted,  nightmare 
town,  as  if  it  would  like  to  wake  up  and  throw  off  some 
indefinable  terrors  ;  and  this  is  Harper's  Ferry,  where 
was,  in  fact,  fired  the  first  gun  of  the  greatest,  the  sad 
dest,  the  best  and  the  worst  war  that  ever  was. 


JOHN"    BROAVX — JOSEPH    DE    BLOXEY.  220 

I  do  not  get  at  the  heart  of  the  best  people  here.  1 
have  little  time,  little  inclination  too,  perhaps.  A  scribe 
wandering  about  alone  with  his  own  meditations,  no  let 
ters  of  introduction,  a  pad  and  pencil  in  his  hand  and  a 
flannel  shirt  on  his  back,  is  not  jnst  the  man  for  first- 
class  men  to  open  either  their  hearts  or  their  doors  to,  I 
admit.  And  then,  what  could  they  tell  me  that  has  not 
been  told  a  thousand  times  ?  Besides,  what  does  this 
new  generation  know  ?  As  for  the  old,  it  perished  in 
the  war. 

But  those  hills  have  not  perished.  They  looked  down 
on  it  all.  Their  stony  lips  are  set  in  everlasting  silence. 
And  yet  they  tell  me  that  John  Brown  came  here, 
climbed  their  heights,  looked  down  into  these  rivers, 
measured  their  waters,  made  a  thousand  calculations  how 
to  advance,  how  to  retreat,  where  to  fight,  and  then  to 
die.  I  think  the  arsenal  with  its  store  of  arms  had  not 
all  to  do  with  bringing  John  Brown  here.  There  was 
comradeship  in  these  glorious  old  hills.  One  likes  to 
have  such  friends  at  his  back  and  close  about  him  in  days 
of  desperate  enterprise. 

"  What  !  A  pilgrimage  to  Harpers  Ferry  to  write  of 
old  John  Brown  ?  Thought  you  were  a  Democrat  ; 
thought  you  had  your  paper  in  Oregon  suppressed  for 
treasonable  utterances  dnriu'  the  wah  ?"  A  good  man, 
a  friend,  said  this  to  me,  and  I  answered  :  "  My  friend, 
whether  it  is  my  love  for  the  poor  man  at  election,  the 
little  horse  in  the  horse-race,  or  the  bottom  dog  in  the 
dog-fight,  I  do  not  know.  I  do  not  care.  I  only  know 
that  I  admired,  pitied,  and  now  revere  John  Brown.  I 
am  going  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Harper's  Ferry  now 
on  the  twenty-fourth  anniversary  of  his  execution. 

"  But  this  man  John  Brown  was  a  murderer — mur 
dered  my  people,  sail." 


230  MEMORIE   AND    RIME. 

"  Yes,  but  he  did  not  murder  many  inen  ;  not  one 
hundredth  part  as  many  as  Sherman  or  Sheridan.  He 
did  not  desolate  the  defenceless  Shenandoah  or  burn  his 
•way  through  the  South.  He  did  not  say,  '  I  have  made 
the  Shenandoah  Valley  so  desolate  that  even  a  crow 
would  have  to  carry  its  rations  if  it  attempted  to  fly  over 
it.'  It  was  the  man  now  at  the  head  of  the  nation's 
army  who  said  that.  And  yet  if  you  were  asked  to  dine 
with  that  man  to-morrow,  the  chances  are  you  would  not 
only  break  bread  with  him,  but  even  pocket  the  bill  of 
fare  as  a  trophy.  I  prefer  the  dead  lion  to  the  living — 
but  why  finish  the  biblical  paraphase  ?" 

"  Then  you  don't  like  Grant  ?" 

"  As  a  soldier,  no.  The  most  pitiful  sight  to  me  is 
that  of  a  man,  any  man,  strutting  about  this  earth  with 
an  implement  buckled  to  his  side  for  the  purpose  of 
poking  some  unfortunate  fellow  to  death.  We  are  a 
pastoral  people  in  these  States  ;  keepers  of  sheep  are  we, 
and  tillers  of  the  soil.  But  right  here  let  me  tell  you, 
while  speaking  of  tilling  the  soil,  that  the  best,  the  brav 
est,  the  very  noblest  deed  that  now  looms  up  and  out  of 
and  over  all  the  desolate  days  and  deeds  of  that  war  was 
done  by  that  man  Grant  ;  and  quietly  and  modestly 
done,  and  done  in  defiance,  too,  of  all  the  powers  at 
Washington.  And  that  immortal  deed,  the  one  splendid 
work  of  the  war,  was  expressed  in  these  words  under  the 
apple-tree  at  Appomattox  :  i  No,  General  Lee,  I  don't 
want  your  horses.  Let  your  men  take  them  home. 
They  will  need  them  to  plough  with.'  ' 

Some  old,  indolent  mules  from  the  country  round 
about ;  greasy  old  wagons  ;  a  good  many  old  and  very 
indolent  negroes  shivering  in  the  frosty  weather  on  the 
corners  ;  corner  groceries  that  have  been  whittled  away 
by  jack-knives — the  only  sign  of  industry  I  see  about  or 


JOHN"    BROWN — JOSEPH    DE   BLONEY.  231 

enterprise  of  any  kind  ;  a  few  seedy-looking  horses 
hitched  before  the  few  stores  ;  an  old  fortress  on  a  wind 
ing  hill  where  "  Stonewall  "  Jackson  pointed  to  the 
State  flag  of  Virginia  and  said,  "  Wherever  thon  goest, 
there  also  will  I  go"— and  that  is  Harper's  Ferry  as  I 
find  it,  where  John  Brown  bled,  with  his  sons  about  him. 

Out  yonder  in  the  middle  of  the  river  the  water  still 
plashes  and  leaps  over  and  divides  around  the  same  great 
rock  there  where  his  black  allies  fell.  Some  ignorant, 
tobacco-eating  idlers  showed  me  a  battered  old  estab 
lishment  from  which  the  old  man,  now  sixty  years  old, 
pointed  his  gun  and  fought  all  night,  his  sons  at  his  side, 
at  his  feet,  dead,  dying,  fighting.  Of  course  there  is  no 
sentiment  about  these  men.  You  hear  hard,  and  maybe 
not  entirely  undeserved,  remarks  from  these  ignorant 
and  unsympathizing  idlers. 

Coming  here  on  the  anniversary  of  John  Brown's 
execution — he  was  hung  on  the  second  of  December, 
only  a  short  walk  away — I  hoped  to  find  something  new 
to  tell  you.  !Not  so. 

But  it  is  an  impressive  fact  that,  looking  south  from 
any  other  point  of  the  llepublic,  this  one  man  and  hia 
sons  stand  up  forever  before  you — forever  true,  grand, 
reverend,  resigned. 

In  the  great  dramas  of  the  days  to  come  this  is  the 
man  who  will  walk  the  stage  with  the  most  majestic 
mien.  It  will  not  be  the  noisy-mouthed  man  of  the  cap 
ital  ;  it  will  not  be  the  contractor  with  his  bloody  mill 
ions  ;  it  will  not  be  the  general  of  the  war  with  a  million 
men  at  command,  who  will  loom  up  largest  and  last. 
But  it  will  be  simple,  honest,  humble  old  John  Brown, 
who  died  in  pity  for  his  helpless  fellow-men. 

It  is  a  singular  thing  that  this  man,  in  one  sense, 
ordered  his  tombstone  before  setting  out  for  Harper's 


233  MEMORIE    A^D    1UME. 

Ferry.  At  least  ho  had  his  father's  tombstone  brought 
from  ~New  York  to  the  half -savage  little  farm  which 
Gerrit  Smith  had  given  him.  The  inscription  on  this 
Btone,  reared  to  the  father  of  John  Brown  of  Harper's 
Ferry,  reads  as  follows  : 

"  In  memory  of  Capt.  John  Brown,  who  died  at  New 
York,  Sept.  ye  3,  17T6,  in  the  42d  year  of  his  age." 

Beneath  this  is  the  old  hero's  epitaph,  and  it  reads  : 

"  John  Brown,  born  May  9,  1SOO  ;  was  executed  at 
Charlestown,  Ya.,  Dec.  2,  1859." 

A    CALIFORNIA   JOHN   JiKOWN    IN    A    SMALL   WAY. 

Joseph  De  Bloney,  whom  I  first  met  on  the  head  of 
the  Sacramento  River  in  the  spring  of  1855,  was  of  the 
old  Swiss  family  of  that  name — famous,  you  know,  for 
being  the  first  to  renounce  their  high  rank  of  nobility 
and  assume  a  simple  republican  name.  This  was  a 
learned  man.  Even  in  the  mountains  there  he  had 
many  books.  But  I  think  few  people  ever  knew  his 
worth.  Certainly  but  few  ever  sympathized  with  him. 
I  believe  he  had  first  crossed  the  plains  with  Fremont. 
He  is  probably  entirely  forgotten  now.  And  the  world 
never  heard  of  his  feeble  efforts  to  help  his  fellows.  Ilis 
ambition  was  to  unite  the  Indians  about  the  base  of 
Mount  Shasta  and  establish  a  sort  of  Indian  republic,  the 
prime  and  principal  object  of  which  was  to  set  these 
Indians  entirely  apart  from  the  approach  of  the  white 
man,  draw  an  impassable  line,  in  fact,  behind  which  the 
Indian  would  be  secure  in  his  lands,  his  simple  life,  his 
integrity,  and  his  purity.  Some  of  the  many  tribes  were 
friendly  ;  some  were  hostile.  It  was  a  hard  undertaking 
at  best,  perilous,  almost  as  much  as  a  man's  life  was 
worth,  to  attempt  to  befriend  an  Indian  in  those  stormy 


JOHN    BROWX — JOSEPH    DK    I'.LOXEY.  233 

days  on  the  border,  when  every  gokl-liunter  crowding 
the  hills  in  quest  of  precious  metals  counted  it  his  privi 
lege,  if  not  his  duty,  to  shoot  an  Indian  on  sight.  An 
Indian  sympathizer  was  more  hated  in  those  days,  is  still, 
than  ever  was  an  Abolitionist.  And  it  was  against  bit 
ter  odds  that  this  little  California  John  Brown,  even 
long  before  John  Brown's  raid,  tried  to  make  a  stand  in 
behalf  of  a  perishing  race,  lie,  too,  failed.  The  plastic 
new  land  was  in  a  chaotic  state.  More  men  than  he 
were  trying  to  fashion  something  solid  and  useful  out  of 
the  Republic's  new  possessions.  Walker  was  even  try 
ing  to  extend  these  possessions  to  ".Nicaragua.  Fremont 
had  hoisted  the  bear  flag.  It  made  him  a  prisoner.  It 
ought  to  have  made  him  President. 

De  Bloney  gradually  gathered  about  twenty-live  men 
around  him  in  the  mountains,  took  np  homes,  situated 
his  men  around  him,  planted,  dug  gold,  did  what  he 
could  to  civilize  the  people  and  subdue  the  savages. 

Our  neighbor,  Captain  Jack,  in  his  lava-beds,  was  born 
of  this  man's  endeavor.  Of.  course  his  motives  were 
misconstrued  by  the  few  who  took  any  notice  of  him  at 
all.  Some  suspected  that  we  had  found  gold-mines  of 
great  Wealth.  Others,  again,  said  we  were  stealing 
horses  and  hiding  them  away  in  the  hearts  of  the  moun 
tains.  And  I  concede  that  property  disputes  with  some 
settlers  gave  some  grounds  for  suspicion.  Yet  De 
Bloney  was  as  honest  as  a  sunset  and  as  pure  as  the 
snowy  mountains  around  ns. 

But  he  had  tough  elements  to  deal  with.  The  most 
savage  men  were  the  white  men.  The  Indians,  the 
friendly  ones,  were  the  tamest  of  his  people.  These 
white  men  would  come  and  go  ;  now  they  would  marry 
the  Indian  women  and  now  join  a  prospecting  party  and 
disappear  for  months,  even  years.  At  one  time  they 


234  MEMORIE    AND    RIME. 

nearly  all  went  off  to  join  Walker  in  Nicaragua.  Only 
two  ever  lived  to  return.  I,  too,  wandered  away  from 
him  more  than  once,  but  at  last  kept  close  and  always 
with  him.  He  taught  me  much,  and  was  good.  Once 
the  unfriendly  Indians  burned  his  camp.  He  raised  a 
company,  followed  and  fought  them.  This  was  the 
battle  of  Castle  Rocks.  I  was  shot  in  the  face  and  neck, 
and  was  nearly  a  year  getting  well.  By  this  time  there 
was  a  war  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  and  I 
was  drawn  into  that  also.  This  was  the  Pit  River 
war.  Here  I  got  a  bullet  through  the  right  arm,  and 
was  laid  up  for  another  long  season. 

By  and  by  he  had  his  plans  matured,  and  had  armed 
his  Indians  in  defence  against  the  brutal  and  aggressive 
white  men.  I  was  sent  on  one  occasion  to  Shasta  City 
for  ammunition.  I  had  made  similar  raids  before.  My 
horse  was  shot  on  the  return.  I  was  dreadfully  bruised 
by  a  fall,  and  the  two  Indians  with  me  took  me  in  turns 
behind  them.  Then  we  got,  or  rather  captured,  a 
fresh  horse  and  kept  on.  But  I  was  too  badly  hurt  to 
go  far,  and  they  left  me  with  some  Indians  by  the  road. 
Here  I  was  captured  by  the  pursuing  white  men.  This 
was  in  1859.  I  was  in  my  seventeenth  year,  and  small 
for  my  age.  Of  course,  they  had  sworn  to  hang  the 
renegade  to  the  nearest  tree.  I  was  really  not  big 
enough  to  hang,  and  so  they  took  me  back  to  Shasta 
City,  put  me  in  jail,  and  my  part  in  the  wild  attempt  to 
found  an  Indian  republic  was  rewarded  with  a  prompt 
indictment  for  stealing  horses.  A  long  time  I  lay  in 
that  hot  and  horrible  pen,  more  dead  than  alive. 

God  pity  all  prisoners,  say  1.  Fortunately  I  could  see 
and  even  smell  some  pine  trees  that  stood  on  the  hillside 
hard  by.  I  know  I  should  have  died  in  those  hot  days, 
with  the  mercury  up  in  the  nineties,  but  for  the  friend- 


JOHN    BROWN — JOSEPH    DE    BLOXEY.  ^35 

ship,  the  fragrance,  the  sense  of  freedom  in  those  proud 
old  pine  trees  on  the  hillside.  Meantime,  as  always 
happens,  I  was  left  alone.  All  the  men  passed  away 
like  water  through  a  sieve,  and  only  the  Indians  remem 
bered  me.  On  the  night  of  the  4th  of  July,  while  the 
town  was  carousing,  they  broke  open  the  jail,  threw  me 
again  on  to  a  horse,  and  such  a  ride  for  freedom  and 
fresh  air  was  never  seen  before. 

Poor  De  Bloney  lost  all  heart  and  gradually  sank  to 
continued  drunkenness  on  the  border  and  ultimate  obscu 
rity.  As  for  myself,  1  tried  to  inherit  his  high  plans 
and  spirits,  and  made  one  more  attempt,  for  I  had  formed 
ties  not  to  be  broken.  But  the  last  venture  was  still 
more  disastrous.  Volumes  only  could  tell  all  the  dread 
ful  story  that  followed — the  tragedy  and  the  comedy, 
the  folly  and  the  wisdom.  And  yet  now,  after  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  I  still  fail  to  see  anything  but  good  and 
honesty  and  integrity  in  these  bold  plans  for  the  protec 
tion  of  the  Indians — the  Indians,  to  whose  annihilation 
we,  as  a  nation,  have  become  quite  reconciled.  Ah  ! 
how  noble  in  us  to  be  so  easily  reconciled  to  the  annihila 
tion  of  another  race  than  our  own  !  I  never  saw  De 
Bloney  after  this  final  failure.  I  would  not  be  taken 
again  prisoner,  and  so  an  officer  in  pursuit  was  shot  from 
his  horse.  We  separated  in  the  Sierras,  and  sought  sep 
arate  ways  in  life  I  made  my  way  to  Washington 
Territory,  sold  iny  pistols,  and  settled  down  in  an  ob 
scure  settlement  on  the  banks  of  the  Columbia,  near 
Lewis  River,  and  taught  school.  And  here  it  was  that 
the  story  of  John  Brown,  his  raid,  his  fight,  his  capture, 
and  his  execution,  all  came  to  me.  Do  you  wonder  that 
my  heart  went  out  to  him  and  remained  with  him  ?  I, 
too,  had  been  in  jail.  Death  and  disgrace  were  on  my 
track,  and  might  find  me  any  day  hiding  away  there 


236  MEMORIE    AND   RIME. 

under  tlie  trees  in  the  heart's  of  the  happy  children. 
And  so,  sympathizing,  I  told  these  children  over  and 
over  again  the  story  of  old  John  Brown  there.  And 
they,  every  one,  loved,  and  honored  and  pitied  him. 

And  now  yon  can  better  understand  why  I  was  so 
resolved  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Harper's  Ferry  on  the 
anniversary  of  his  execution.  However,  he  does  not 
need  my  sympathy,  or  any  one's  sympathy.  I  am  here 
simply  because  it  is  my  sad  pleasure  to  be  here  at  this 
time. 

It  was  an  odd  sequel  to  our  failure  to  establish  our 
Utopian  Republic  about  the  base  of  Mount  Shasta,  with 
the  great  white  cone  for  a  -centre,  that  I  should  finally 
meet  these  same  men  who  had  fought  and  had  captured 
me  in  California  up  in  the. new  gold-fields  of  Northern 
Oregon.  And  singularly  enough,  they  were  very  kind. 
I  had  received  too  many  wounds  fighting  for  these  same 
men  on  the  border  of  California  to  be  quite  the  "  rene 
gade"  they  counted  me  once.  And  when  the  Shoshonee 
Indians  now  attacked  our  camp  at  Canyon  City,  Oregon, 
these  same  men  chose  me  their  captain  to  lead  them  in 
battle.  And  how  they  did  wish  for  poor  De  Bloney 
now!  But  he 'had  been  buried  away  up  in  the  golden 
fields  of  Idaho.  A  three-months'  campaign,  and  I  was 
finally  beaten,  leaving  many  dead.  Bat,  as  if  still  to 
convince  me  of  their  love  and  confidence,  when  we  re 
turned  to  Canyon  City,  they  elected  me  judge  of  the 
country,  and  for  the  four  years  «of  my  administration 
stood  truly  by  me,  as  if  to  try  to  make  me  forget  some 
thing  of  the  sorrow  and  the  shame  of  imprisonment. 
Yet  for  all  that  I  was  in  some  sense  an  old  man  from  the 
time  of  our  failure  and  flight.  And  how  wretched  the 
few  remaining  Indians  there  now  !  There  are  only  now 
and  then  in  all  that  splendid  mountain  region  a  few  mis- 


.JOHN  imowx — JOSEPH  DE  BLONEY.  tit 

erable  hovels  of  half-starved,  dispirited  beggars  of  the 
lowest  sort  to  be  met  with.  Captain  Jack  and  his  sixty 
brave  rebels  were  the  last  of  this  race.  But  they  made  a 
red  spot  on  the  map  which  the  army  will  long  remember. 

FOR    THOSE    WTHO    FAIL. 

"  All  honor  to  him  who  shall  win  the  prize," 
The  world  has  cried  for  a  thousand  years  ; 

But  to  him  who  tries,  and  who  fails  and  dies, 
I  give  great  honor  and  glory  and  tears. 

Give  glory  and  honor  and  pitiful  tears 
To  all  who  fail  in  their  deeds  sublime  ; 

Their  ghosts  are  many  in  the  van  of  years, 

They  were  born  with  Time  in  advance  of  Time. 

Oh,  great  is  the  hero  who  wins  a  name, 

But  greater  many  and  many  a  time 
Some  pale-faced  fellow  who  dies  in  shame, 

And  lets  God  finish  the  thought  sublime. 

And  great  is  the  man  with  a  sword  undrawn, 
And  good  is  the  man  who  refrains  from  wine  ; 

But  the  man  who  fails  and  yet  still  fights  on, 
Lo,  he  is  the  twin-born  brother  of  mine. 


THE    END. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF  FUNK  <&  WAGNALLS,  NEK  YORK. 

•»  Tfce  most  important  and  practical  work  of  the   acre  on  tine 
Psalms."— SCHAFF. 

Six  voi.raiKS  NOW  re  I:AI>V. 
-SPURCEON'S  GREAT  LIFE  WORK- 

THE   TREASURY   OF    DAVID! 

To  be  published  in  seven  octavo  volumes  of  about  470  pages  eack 
uniformly  bound,  and  making  a  library  of  3,300  pages, 

in  handy  form  for  reading  and  reference. 

It  is  published  simultaneously  with,  and  contains  the  exact  matter  o£; 
the  English  Edition,  which  has  t-olJ  at  $4.00  per  volume 
in  this  country^$28.00  for  the  work  when  com 
pleted.  Our  edition  is  in  every  way  pref 
erable,    and    is    furnished     at 

ONE-HAU   THE  PBICE  OP 

THE  ENGLISH 

EDITION. 

Price,  Per  Vol.  $2.CO. 

"Messrs.  Funk  &°  Wagnalls  have  entered  into  an  arrangement  with 
9tf  to  reprint  THE  TREASUR  Y  OF  DA  VID  in  the  United  States.  2 
have  every  confidence  in  them  that  they  will  issue  it  correctly  and  worthily. 
It  has  been  the  great  literary  work  of  my  life,  and  I  trust  it  will  be  as 
kindly  received  in  America  as  in  England.  I  wish  for  Messrs.  Funk  suc 
cess  in  a  venture  which  must  involve  a  great  risk  and  much  outlay. 

"Dec.  8,  i88f.  C.  H.  SPURGE  ON." 

Volumes  I.,  H.,  IH,  IV.,  V.  and  VL  are  now  ready;  volume 
VII.,  which  completes  the  great  work,  is  now  under  the  hand  of  the 
author.  Subscribers  can  consult  their  convenience  by  ordering  ail 
the  volumes  issued,  or  one  volume  at  a  time,  at  stated  intervals,  until 
the  set  is  completed  by  the  delivery  of  Volume  VII. 

From  the  1-rge  number  of  hearty  commendations  of  this  import 
ant  work,  we  give  the  following  to  indicate  the  value  set  upon  the 
Bame  by 

EMINENT  THEOLOGIANS  AND  SCHOLARS. 


Philip  Sc-naff,  i>.D.,the  Eminent 
Commentator  and  the  President  of  the 
American  Bible  Revision  Committee, 
•aye:  "The  most  important  and  prac 


tical  work  of  the  age  on  the  Psalter  IP 
'The  Treasury  of  David,'  by  Charles  H 
Spurgeon.  It  is  full  of  the  force  and 
genius  of  this  celebrated  preacher,  and 


(OVER.) 


•Tkt  about  workt  -unll  bt  sent  by  mail,  postage  Paid,   on  receipt  of  the  pritt. 


PUBLICATTONS  OF  FUNK  dk  WAGNALLS,  NEW  YORK. 


rich  in  selections  from  the  entire  range 
el  literature." 

Wlliam     M.     Taylor,     D.D., 

New  York  says:  '  In  the  exposition  of 
the  heart  'THE  TuEASURy  OF  DAVID'  is 
sui  generis,  rich  iu  experience  and  pre 
eminently  devotional.  The  exposition 
js  alwas  fresh.  To  the  preacher  it  is 
e^picially  suggestive." 

John    Hall,    D.t>.,     New   Voi-k, 

says:  ''  There  are  two  questions  that 
must  interest  every  expositor  of  tha 
Divine  Word.  What  does  a  particular 
passage  mean,  and  to  what  use  is  it  to 
be  applied  in  public  teaching?  in  the 
department  of  the  latter  Mr.  Spur- 
geon's  great  work  on  the  Psalms  is 
without  an  e^ual.  Eminently  practical 
in  his  own  teaching,  he  has  c  fleeted  in 
these  volumes  the  best  thoughts  of  the 
best  minds  on  the  Psalter,  and  es  e- 
cially  of  that  grt- at  body.loose'y  grouped 
together  as  the  Puritan  divines.  I  ain 
heartily  glad  that  by  arrangements, 
ea  isfactory  to  all  concerned, tl  *  Messrs. 
Funk  &  Wa-nalls  are  to  bring  uiis  gr  at 
work  within  th.3  roach  ot  ministers 
everywhere,  as  the  English  edition  is 
necessarily  expensive.  I  wish  the 
highest  success  to  the  enterprise." 

William  Ormiston,  r>.T|.(New 

York,  says:  "  I  consider  •  THE  TREASURY 
OP  DAVID'  a  work  of  surpassing  excel- 
Ien3e,of  inestimable  value  to  every  stu 
dent  of  the  >  salter.  It  will  prove  a 
standard  work  on  the  Psalms  lor  all 
time.  The  instructive  introductions, 
tae  racy  ori  inil  t-xp  -sitions,  the 
numerous  q  aint  illustrations  gath 
ered  ip'jm  wide  and  varied  fields,  and 
the  suggestive  seimonic  hin  s,  render 
the  volumes  invaluable  to  all  preachers, 
and  indispensable  to  every  minister's 
library.  All  who  delight  in  reading  the 
Psalxs — and  what  Christian  does  not? 
—will  prize  this  work.  It  is  a  rich 
cycl  ipaedia  of  the  literature  of  taese 
ancient  odes." 

Then.  li.  ^uyier,  D.D..  Brook 
lyn,  says:  "  I  have  use  I  Mr.  Spurgeon's 
•  THE  TREASURY  OF  DAVID'  i'or  tl  ree 
years,  and  iound  it  worthy  of  its  name. 
Whoso  goeth  in  there  will  find  '  rich 
spoils.'  At  both  my  visits  to  Mr.  S  he 
spoke  with  much  enthusiasm  of  this 
undertaking  as  one  of  his  favor  te 
methods  of  enriching  himse.f  and 
others." 

JesaeB.  t'homug,  D.D  ,  Brook- 
lyn,  says:  "  I  have  the  highest  concep 


tion  ot  the  sterling  worth  of  all  Mr. 
Spurgeon's  publications,  and  I  incline 
to  regard  his  TREASURY  OF  DAVID'  aa 
having  received  more  of  his  loving 
labor  than  any  other.  I  regard  its 
publication  at  a  l'>wer  price  as  a  great 
service  to  American  Bible  students." 

New  Yorlc  Observer  says:  "  A 
rich  compendium  of  suggestive  com- 
ment  upon  the  richest  devotional 
poetry  ever  given  to  mankind.  ' 

Tli<-»  Congregatlonalist,  Eos- 
ton,  says:  "  As  a  devout  and  spiritually 
sugg  stive  work,  it  is  meeting  with 
tae  warmest  approval  and  receiving 
the  hearty  commendation  of  the  most 
distinguished  divines." 

United  Presbyterian,  Pitts- 
burg,  Pa  ,  says:  "  It  is  unapproached 
as  a  commentary  on  the  Psalms.  It  is 
of  equal  value  to  ministers  and  lay 
men — a  quality  that  works  of  the  kind 
rarely  possess." 

North.  American,  Philadelphia, 
Pa.:  says:  "  \Vill  find  a  place  in  the 
library  of  every  minister  who  knows 
how  to  appreciate  a  good  thing." 

New  Yorlc  Independent  pays: 
"  He  has  ransacked  e  /angelical  litera- 
ture,and  comes  forth,  like  Jessica  from 
her  father's  houeo,  'gilded  with 
ducats'  and  rich  plunder  in  the  shape 
of  good  and  helpiul  quotations.' 

New  Yorli  Tribune  says:  "For 
the  great  majority  of  readers  who  seek 
in  the  Psalms  those  practical  lessons 
in  which  they  are  so  rich,  and  those 
wonderful  interpretations  of  heart-life 
and  expression  of  emotion  in  which 
they  anticipate  1he  New  Testament,  we 
know  of  no  book  like  this,  nor  as  good. 
It  is  literally  a  «  Treasury.'  " 

£.  S.  Times  sa  s:  "Mr.  Fpurgeon's 
style  is  simple,  direct  and  perspicuous, 
oiten  reminding  one  of  the  matchless 
prose  of  Bunyan." 

Western  Christian  Advo-a'e, 
Cincinnati,  O.,  says:  "The  price  is  ex 
tremely  moderate  lor  BO  Jarge  and  inv 
portant  a  work.  *  *  *  Wo  have  ex 
amined  this  volume  with  care,  and  we 
are  greatly  pleased  with  the  plan  of 
execution." 

C'li  ris.1  iaii  Herald  says:  "  Con 
tains  mors  felicitous  illustrations, 
more  valuable  sermonic  hints,  than  can 
be  found  in  all  other  worka  on  the 
s-me  book  put  together." 


The  above  works  -wzll  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  paid,  on    receipt   of  the  przct. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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General  Library 

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Berkeley 


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